


A Linear Progression

by billboard_dinosaur



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Attempt at Humor, Crack, Dark Harry, Dark Harry Potter, Dark Magic, Disturbing Themes, F/M, Gen, Good Harry Potter, Harry Potter is a Horcrux, Hufflepuff Harry Potter, M/M, Marauders Era (Harry Potter), Souls, Time Travel, Under the Influence of Horcruxes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:53:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 71,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23478781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/billboard_dinosaur/pseuds/billboard_dinosaur
Summary: Harry Potter gets sent back in time in the early spring of his 6th year at Hogwarts. The only way to get back to his time is to live through each year in a linear progression.Harry only has three goals: survive, find his friends, and make it back home. But things don't really go according to plan.
Relationships: Albus Dumbledore & Harry Potter, Harry Potter & Severus Snape
Comments: 101
Kudos: 340





	1. A Noodle Through Time

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome! This story will be updated every Sunday! 
> 
> Caution: This fic features excessive usage of the em dash.

**I. A Noodle Through Time**

Harry Potter is not pleased when he suddenly finds himself spinning and twisting through a tiny prick of space almost like he is a zucchini being turned into noodles. Zucchini noodles, while edible, are not natural and frankly should never have been discovered. He once had to make zucchini noodles for Aunt Petunia. He’s never liked any “noodling” of any sort except for actual pasta. Perhaps that’s because he was only a kid when this occurred and he undoubtedly noodled the zucchini incorrectly, thus ruining their flavour and texture--but regardless: Harry feels like he is being stripped and ripped and crimped into a long strange noodle. His limbs feel wobbly and his knees are weak, even though Harry knows without a doubt that he is not standing.

Remarkably, Harry finds himself completely aware of this circuitous line of thought even while he is being noodled, and so he finds himself reflecting on how exactly this situation came to be.

It was, he determines, not his fault. He was simply standing in the Room of Requirement, minding his own business, when his dear friends Hermione and Ron came barging in exclaiming something about time and carriages and travelling and holidays. They were talking over each other, but each wanted to be heard and acknowledged first, so they both started to increase their volume until they were shouting and Harry just winced and cringed until finally he told them to shut up and that he wished that he could “time-travel away from them for holiday” and then somehow, because Harry is not very skilled at magical theory, and besides, no one really understands magic, Harry supposes that his words somehow triggered something in the Room of Requirement because he promptly began to be noodled.

In hindsight, he reckons that Hermione and Ron were trying to tell him something along the lines of: “It’s time to go! The carriages are travelling to the station. It’s holiday!”

It’s a shame, Harry acknowledges, that he’s rash enough to make such a bold declaration simply because his friends were talking too loud. So Harry presumes that he's actually time-travelling away from his friends for holiday.

The only problem he sees is that no one can travel forward in time. There was that unfortunate case of Eloise Mintumble—he learned about her from Hermione when she had that time-turner in 3rd year—and how travelling forward in time is frankly impossible and alters the very fabric of reality.

So Harry realises somewhat belatedly that he has possibly made the biggest mistake of his life, but that he will only know the severity of it once he actually stops being noodled. Which is actually very uncomfortable, in case you were wondering, thank you very much.

But the longer Harry is being noodled, the more Harry feels that he’s travelling a lot more than he had anticipated. No, this is not just a few months, but rather on the scale of a few _years_. Dear God, he hopes whenever he’s going that they’ve at least accomplished indoor plumbing. Hermione has told him in far too much detail about the sanitary habits of witches and wizards in the past. Harry desperately wishes that it’s all some grand prank that they’ve recorded in history to frighten children, but he’s become far too accustomed to the stupidity of the wizarding world in the six years he’s spent here.

With a last squelching sound, Harry experiences intense pain and finds himself splattered on the steps in front of the castle (which he finds odd, because he would have assumed he would have at least exited in the Room of Requirement). He’s improperly balanced between several steps, and he still feels the aftereffects of being noodled for some time, and so he falls down the steps quite dramatically with several painful exclamatory sounds, such as “ouch!” and “bloody hell!” and “oof!”

To Harry’s greatest relief, he is initially under the impression that there is no one around to see his humiliating tumble for several moments until he hears the unmistakable guffaws of a student having watched his dreadful arrival into this time.

“Are you alright?” the stranger says. Harry cannot see him, for his eyes are closed with shame.

Harry groans. “No,” he says, rubbing his scar, which has spiked with pain.

“You think you can make it to the Hospital Wing or do I have to float you?” the stranger says. Harry can tell he’s trying to restrain a laugh. Harry is slightly displeased by this, but he does admit that he likely would have laughed had he been witness to the same event.

“Dunno,” he says stupidly.

“Knocked your head, didn’t you?” the stranger says. “Bit of a nasty tumble there, eh?”

Harry still has his eyes closed when he struggles to sit up. When Harry extends a hand out of a necessity for balance, rather than a cry for help, he is pleasantly surprised when the stranger grabs his hand and helps to pull him up.

“Come on, then,” the stranger says. “Can’t leave you out here to die.”

Harry clambers to his feet and finally opens his eyes and then promptly shuts them because he is confused by what he just saw—but he decides he must be seeing things and trying to make connections he does not understand, so he reopens them, ignores the blaringly obvious person right in front of him, and with his help, they manage to make quick time to the Hospital Wing.

“Mr Sullivan,” the stranger calls. “I’ve got a new victim for you.”

“Victim,” Harry says so flatly that it does not come across as the question it really is intended to be.

“All of Mr Sullivan’s patients are actually his victims. He tortures you,” the stranger says. The stranger backpedals, likely upon seeing Harry’s frightened reaction, and explains, “Not literally, of course, but he’s a real stickler on bedrest and taking it easy after injuries. Essentially the same as torture, right?”

Harry slowly nods as if he were in agreement. “No,” he says, because the stranger is wrong.

The stranger only looks at Harry with an amusing expression. “Well, I’m off then. Cheers,” he says. The stranger then leaves Harry alone in the Hospital Wing.

And so Harry finds himself alone and utterly confused because he was just helped to the Hospital Wing by a joking, kind, and shockingly pleasant Severus Snape—and Harry doesn’t know what to think. Especially considering that Severus Snape compared bedrest to torture as if they were essentially the same thing, and Harry knows for a _fact_ that the Severus Snape of his own time does _not_ think that.

And then it hits him rather suddenly because if Severus Snape is young, and helped him to the hospital wing, and—Harry remembers that he was in school robes—is attending school at this time, then he is at Hogwarts in the 1970s and dear Merlin above all that is holy, his parents are at school and his dad bullied Snape—but he has no idea why because Snape was actually _really nice_ to him.

The day gets even stranger when Mr Sullivan appears into the room, takes one look at Harry, gasps, and then exclaims with unmasked joy, “By Jove! A time-traveller! I haven’t seen one of you before!”

And Harry just stares at Mr Sullivan blankly because clearly, something is written on his face that screams “time-traveller", but then again, the young and _kind_ (????) Severus Snape did not realise this, so obviously nothing is not written on his face, but maybe he’s exuding some strange magic mumbo-jumbo that only healers can detect that screams “time-travel” and that’s what Mr Sullivan is picking up on?

Really, Harry feels completely out of his element, but he is getting far too tired to keep standing, so he just nods his head and says, “Yes, can I please sit down? I’m very tired.”

And then Mr Sullivan gasps with obvious understanding, “Oh, certainly! I’ve never been noodled before, but I’ve read it’s a dreadful experience. On a scale of one to ten, with ten being the worst pain you’ve ever experienced in your life, how would you rank it in pain?”

Harry blinks very slowly at Mr Sullivan because _how the hell did he know about the noodling_ and then shakes his head to clear it because obviously he has missed reading some very clear literature on time-travel that obviously explains all of this. “Probably about a six?”

“A six?” Mr Sullivan gasps. “Why on earth would you only give it a six?”

Harry shrugs. “I think watching my godfather die was more emotionally painful than anything physical I can experience.”

And then Mr Sullivan nods wisely. “Ah, I see you took into account all of the pains of life. Well then, on a merely physical pain scale, where would it rank?”

“Probably about a six?” Harry repeats.

“A six?” Mr Sullivan gasps. “Why on earth would you only give it a six?”

Harry feels like he’s experiencing strong déjà vu. “Well, it’s not as bad as the torture curse, and not as bad being possessed, and I didn’t die, and, well, it ended. I wouldn’t recommend it, but it’s not the worst thing I’ve ever felt.”

Mr Sullivan frowns for the first time. Harry is relieved because Mr Sullivan seems to gasp a lot and he’s not entirely sure how Mr Sullivan hasn’t hyperventilated yet with all of this inhalation he seems to undertake.

“Well, let’s do a complete check-up then? Make sure your noodling didn’t damage anything important,” Mr Sullivan concludes.

“Can you tell me what year it is?” Harry asks.

“Today is April 15, 1977,” Mr Sullivan says. “Did you arrive accurately?”

“Well, considering I never intended to travel in the first place, I suppose so?”

“You _accidentally_ noodled?!” Mr Sullivan gasps _again_.

“Can you stop that?” Harry says.

“Stop what?” Mr Sullivan says. “I’m really impressed with you. Accidental noodling is an accomplishment. I would like to write a case report about you, if you would grant me permission.”

“No,” Harry says firmly. “I do not give you permission.”

Mr Sullivan pouts, but to Harry’s surprise, does not push the matter. Harry is rather irritated with the man, and the whole situation. This all seems a bit ridiculous. And the rather incessant gasping is really starting to drive him up the wall.

And to Harry’s greatest delight, Mr Sullivan gasps. “Oh dear! We need to inform the headmaster!”

Harry blinks. “Why?”

“Because you’ve arrived at Hogwarts,” Mr Sullivan says smartly, “and that means the headmaster must be informed of this occasion.”

Harry shrugs. At least Dumbledore will be someone he is fairly familiar with.

“But first, how old are you?” Mr Sullivan asks.

“Can’t you tell with your spells?” Harry asks.

Mr Sullivan scoffs. “No! What do you think we have? Magical diagnostic spells that immediately inform us of everything that has ever gone wrong with you in your life, and list out every single broken bone you’ve ever experienced and magically produce a long scroll of parchment that is equal parts humiliating and your saving grace, because somehow patient privacy is ignored and every single professor in the school watches and reads it? That’s absurd.”

“Oh,” Harry says.

“Besides,” Mr Sullivan says, “you’re healthy. Your noodling seemed to do you no harm.”

“That’s a relief,” Harry says.

“Yes,” Mr Sullivan agrees. “Now, you’re just probably a bit tired. Nothing a good spot of rest won’t fix, so you’re going to go to sleep right after the headmaster leaves, and then in the morning you’ll be right as rain.”

And then as if he were summoned, Albus Dumbledore appears in the doorway, takes one look at Harry sitting on the cot in the Hospital Wing, gasps and says, “A time-traveller!”

Seriously, what is up with everyone gasping?

“When did you come from?” Albus Dumbledore says. “Wait! Don’t tell me.”

“Okay,” Harry says.

“This is very exciting,” Mr Sullivan says. “Don’t you agree?”

Dumbledore nods. “Indeed. How was the noodling? Would you describe it as carrot noodling, or cucumber noodling?”

And then Harry is baffled for the second time because apparently Albus Dumbledore knows about the noodling as well, and Harry has never even thought about noodling carrots before. “Rather zucchini-like.”

Albus Dumbledore gasps at the same time as Mr Sullivan. “Zucchini noodling! Fascinating! That only happens to accidental travellers!”

“I didn’t know you could noodle carrots,” Harry says.

“All of the references _I_ know about refer to the noodling experience as either sweet potato or cucumber noodling,” Mr Sullivan says. “Sweet potato is when it’s accurate, cucumber when it’s not. I think that no one has ever experienced carrot noodling—completely absurd!”

“You’re correct,” the headmaster nods. “I was testing him—if he said it was like carrot noodling then we could be certain that he was a false noodle. But zucchini noodling—that’s very rare!”

And Harry feels like he’s about to cry because he has absolutely _no idea_ what’s happening because zucchini noodling and sweet potato noodling and cucumber noodling and who the hell cares about what type of noodling happened because he is in the _past_ suddenly and he is no longer in the future _where he belongs_ and how the hell is he supposed to live here when he’s going to have to live through the years to end up in the future again and _can he change what’s going to happen_ and _should he change_ and _is it even possible to change_ and what on earth is going on with everyone gasping?

“Oh dear,” Mr Sullivan says. “We seem to have overwhelmed the lad.”

“Oh, that’s a pity,” Dumbledore says. He turns to look at Harry with familiar kind blue eyes. “How old are you?”

“Sixteen,” Harry says. He is _not_ crying yet, but there are certainly tears welling up in his eyes.

Mr Sullivan gasps.

This is the last straw. Harry cannot hold back the tears any longer. He does not sob—no, Harry has dignity still—he does not wail. Harry silently cries and looks down into his lap.

“Have you taken your OWLs yet?” Dumbledore asks.

Harry nods, because he cannot talk since he is crying.

“Well, it sure wouldn’t be nice to make him retake them,” Mr Sullivan says. “Those tests are horrible!”

“But he needs his OWLs!” Dumbledore says.

“Not if he has his NEWTs he doesn’t!” Mr Sullivan says. “If he has NEWTs, then no one will care about his OWLs.”

Albus Dumbledore considers this carefully for only a few seconds before nodding sharply. “You are a wise man, Mr Sullivan,” he says. “No OWLs for the poor boy!”

Harry is grateful for this small mercy, but he is still crying so he cannot say thank you because otherwise it would be a croak, and Harry does not want to embarrass himself, so he nods exuberantly as if to express the same thing.

“Ah, he seems grateful for that,” Mr Sullivan says. Harry’s nonverbal message has been received successfully.

“Well then, he’ll be a sixth year,” Dumbledore says. “And since it is April 15, 1977, we are on Easter holiday, as we have been for the last two weeks. It’s a good time for a new student to arrive.”

“Classes start on the 18th, so he has the weekend to recuperate,” Mr Sullivan says. He turns to Harry and says, “Today’s Friday.”

Harry nods. He is calming down now. They haven’t gasped in a while, and now that a plan for his life is seeming to come together, he feels more confident with his life.

“Excellent!” Dumbledore declares. “Now, what is your name?”

Mr Sullivan gasps—and Harry has to struggle to keep his composure.

“Um, should I say my real name or make up a new one?” Harry asks.

“I suppose it’s up to you,” Dumbledore says. “You’re the one who knows best about this.”

Harry understands, but he’s a little disappointed because he doesn’t want to make any decisions right now. But he’ll have to make a decision—and he can’t actually be associated with Harry Potter, The-Boy-Who-Lived, when that happens in 4 years, so he’ll definitely have to change at the minimum his last name.

“What’s the most common last name in the UK?” Harry asks.

Dumbledore smiles. “A wise decision,” he says. “And strangely, I happen to know the top five last names randomly off the top of my head, for no good reason whatsoever, since why on earth would a magical institution carry a book that lists all of the most common last names in the country?”

“Well, let’s hear them then!” Mr Sullivan says.

“Smith, Jones, Williams, Taylor, Davies,” Dumbledore recites.

“That’s certainly handy,” Mr Sullivan says.

“This is the first time I’ve thought so,” Dumbledore says. “I have never had to use it before.”

“Well then,” Mr Sullivan says as if this is not an unusual thing whatsoever, “which one do you like the best?”

Harry thinks for a moment. _Harry Smith_ , _Harry Jones_ , _Harry Williams_ , _Harry Taylor_ , or _Harry Davies_.

“My name is Harry Smith,” Harry says. “It sounds the best.”

Mr Sullivan and Albus Dumbledore both mouth the same five names that Harry had silently said and then both seem to reach the same conclusion Harry did. “You’re correct,” Mr Sullivan says, sounding almost impressed. Harry isn’t sure if he should be offended or not.

“Well then, Mr Harry Smith,” Dumbledore says. “Welcome to Hogwarts. You’re going to need to be sorted, because since you have a new name you need a new house.”

“Do I have to sit on a stool in front of everyone?” Harry asks.

“No, that’s only fair when you have to do it with your whole year,” Dumbledore says. “It’s just mean if it’s only you.”

“Is that going to happen now?” Harry asks. “The sorting, I mean?”

They both turn to look at Mr Sullivan, who shrugs. “If you bring the hat to him, I’ve not a problem with it.”

Dumbledore brightens. “Well,” he says, “It just so happens that the Sorting Hat is in my pocket! Silly me!”

“Albus! You know you can’t keep doing that to the poor hat. It hates being crumpled,” Mr Sullivan says.

“Oh, the Hat’s feelings don’t matter—it’s just a _hat_ ,” Albus Dumbledore waves a hand in dismissal. “Now, for your sorting!”

Albus Dumbledore pulls from his pocket the Sorting Hat. He brandishes it as if it were a sword. “Behold!” Albus Dumbledore says.

He then promptly places the hat on Harry’s head.

_Oh, hello,_ the Sorting Hat says. _You seem frightened. Don’t worry, you will be safe here._

Harry isn’t really worried about his safety, but more about the fact that he’s accidentally 20 years in the past.

_Oh, don’t worry about time. It all resolves itself eventually. You’ll see. Time is all we have, in fact_ , the hat says. _But you sure don’t seem very brave about this situation. And you obviously haven’t searched any literature about noodling, so knowledge, while useful, isn’t your primary driver._

Harry didn’t even know there _was_ literature about noodling.

_Exactly my point_. _Now, you claim to have some ambition, since for some reason you think it’s ambitious of you to not die, but frankly I disagree since you’re perfectly safe at Hogwarts._

Clearly, this hat doesn’t know _anything_ about Harry’s life if it thinks staying alive isn’t ambitious.

_Oh, no, I see why you thought that—it was ambitious_ then _,_ _but it’s not ambitious_ now _. Well, you’re going to have to be patient with everyone until you figure out what you’re doing. This was really an easy sorting, I’m pleased. And there wasn’t any need to rush for once—for some reason, taking a while always makes the student nervous, and the headmaster doesn’t like it since they have to go through so many students. Don’t they know I want to get this right? I should be able to take as long as I want. It’s outrageous! They’re so fickle. Anyways,_

“Hufflepuff!” the Sorting Hat says—and then Mr Sullivan gasps.


	2. The Defence Professor

It is Monday morning, April 18th, 1977, and Harry Potter—no, Harry _Smith_ —is sitting in his new dorm room in the _Hufflepuff_ common room (and isn't that a surprise) waiting for his new classmates to get ready for the day. He wakes before everyone else but that is likely because he is very nervous because today he is actually going back to school and this really is completely crazy and Harry is still having a hard time trying to convince himself that this isn’t a very detailed hallucination.

“You ready, Harry?” one of his new classmates says. Harry has already forgotten his name.

“Yeah,” Harry says. “I’m so sorry—I can’t remember your name.”

To his relief, the other guy smiles. “Oh, that’s alright! You’ve been introduced to too many people. I’ll keep telling you every time we talk until you tell me to stop, how about that? Anyways, I’m Luke Ridley.”

“And I’m Ian McAllen,” a tall, gangly strawberry blonde guy that suddenly appears behind Luke Ridley says. “Sorry, we’ve probably overwhelmed you, haven’t we?”

“Just a bit,” Harry says. “But it’s alright. I’m sorry if I forget again.”

“Don’t worry about it!” Ian McAllen says. “It took me months before I remembered Luke’s name. He had to tell me his name every single time I spoke to him until I finally got it.”

Harry blinks. “Oh,” he says. Luke’s offer makes sense now. He rubs his scar. It’s hurting something dreadful today.

“Well then, breakfast?” Luke Ridley says. “I’m Luke Ridley.”

Harry nods. He follows the two out of the common room toward the Great Hall.

“So, what made you transfer?” Ian asks.

“My parents died,” Harry says bluntly.

Ian blanches. “Oh, I’m so sorry!” he says. “Just—just pretend I didn’t ask that.”

Luke punches Ian’s shoulder. “You maggot!”

Harry winces because that insult was not very wisely chosen if he was in fact still upset about his parent’s death. When Luke sees his wince, it is his turn to look horrified, and then Ian punches him, and says, “You’re the arsehole!”

“Tosser!” Luke says.

“Knob!” Ian says.

“Git!”

“Pillock!”

“Plonnker!”

“Prat!”

“Twat!”

“Would you two please stop?” Harry interrupts. This is getting a little out of hand.

“Oh, sorry Harry,” Ian says.

“Yeah, we sometimes do that,” Luke says. “We like to show off our knowledge of British insults. By the way, I’m Luke Ridley.”

Harry rolls his eyes.

When they arrive in the Great Hall, Luke and Ian have managed to learn that Harry is fond of Defence, Charms, and long walks on the beach. Neither Luke nor Ian find this funny, and so Harry simply pretends that he is completely serious about this. Harry has not been to the beach before.

They take their seats, and Harry is greeted by the familiar figure of Pomona Sprout, albeit in a younger and trimmer form. “You’re Harry Smith, correct?” she says. When Harry nods in response, she continues, “Brilliant! Welcome to Hufflepuff and Hogwarts. Here’s your time table—and I hope you have a wonderful day! Good-bye!”

And then Pomona Sprout is gone and Harry is left alone with Luke and Ian once more. Harry looks at his time table, finds it satisfactory, and does not want to list out every single detail of his schedule to his surroundings so he refrains from this recitation and simply takes note of the fact that his first class today is Potions with the Ravenclaws, and so he tucks the piece of parchment into his pocket, serves himself a few rashers of bacon from the platter in front of him, and promptly begins to eat.

“Well?” Luke asks. Then, after a pause: “I’m Luke Ridley.”

“Potions, first,” Harry says after he swallows. He really should tell Luke to stop saying his name, but he also wants to see how long Luke will keep this up.

“Brill! Same as me and Luke, then,” Ian says. “We can show you there.”

Harry nods to show he has heard this suggestion and finds it suitable, and then turns his attention back to his breakfast proper.

Potions with the Ravenclaws is actually fine, and Harry finds himself seated with a Hufflepuff girl he does not know, and apparently she doesn’t know him. He doesn’t bother to introduce himself, and she doesn’t bother to introduce herself, so they sit there through class in amiable silence. When the practical portion begins, the labour is divided nicely, and to Harry’s mild surprise, they produce a fairly decent potion that Professor Slughorn calls “Excellent!”

And then Ian and Luke collect Harry from the unknown Hufflepuff girl and Harry tells them that he has Defence, and then Ian and Luke do not have Defence—they have Herbology now—but they escort him to the Defence classroom anyways before rushing off to the greenhouses after telling them that the professor is really great and kind—fair to everyone!—and knows a lot about defence.

Harry enters the Defence classroom and then immediately panics when he realises that he is the only Hufflepuff in this class. He has no idea _why_ he was placed in this section, when it is clearly the Gryffindor/Slytherin section—and then he sees that _oh dear Merlin, is that my parents and Sirius and_ —Harry turns away from them and looks to the right side of the room and sees Severus Snape (who was actually _really nice_ to him only a few days ago) who is actually waving hello to Harry, and also conveniently has an empty seat next to him, and so Harry takes a deep breath and crosses the room into _Slytherin territory_ (although in his time, the right side of the room will change to be the Gryffindor side) and takes the open chair next to his former professor.

“Hey, stranger! You didn’t die after all!” Severus Snape says with a cheerful inflection.

“No,” Harry says. “I’m all in one piece.”

“You never told me your name, by the way,” Severus Snape says.

And Harry remembers that he isn’t supposed to know Severus Snape so he says, “Neither did you.”

Severus Snape smiles, and then says, “Severus Snape—call me Severus.”

“Severus,” Harry repeats. “Nice to meet you, I’m Harry Smith.”

“Harry Smith, eh?” someone from behind them asks. “Any relation to the Albert Smith family?”

Harry turns to see a complete stranger behind him. He shakes his head, “If there is, I don’t know about it. I’m dreadful with names.”

The stranger shrugs. “Just wanted to check. Their family’s supposedly related to Hufflepuff, so they all go into that house.”

Harry widens his eyes. “Oh, no, then. I’ve no relation to Helga Hufflepuff.”

The stranger sits back in his chair. “Well then, you have no reason to be ashamed of yourself now,” he says.

Severus scoffs. “Oh, get over yourself, Alan,” he says. Severus tilts his head towards the man he called Alan, “My dear friend there is Alan Avery. He’s got bollocks for brains, but he’s not too bad.”

To Harry’s surprise, he doesn’t completely freak out when he realises that the person behind him is _Avery_ , who he _fought_ in the Department of Mysteries. This is _Avery_ , who grovelled at Lord Voldemort’s feet. _What the hell_.

“Charmed,” Harry says calmly.

Avery smiles at Harry. “You’ve met Severus already, then?”

“I have,” Harry says. He is about to continue when Severus begins to speak.

“I was the one who found him, actually,” Severus says.

“Found him?” Avery asks.

“Yeah—his portkey went wrong and left him in between steps in front of the castle, so he fell all the way down those stairs. It was hilarious, no offense, mate,” Severus says to Avery’s deep amusement.

Harry smiles slightly, “No, it’s alright. I can imagine it was funny to see. Thanks, by the way, for helping me to the Hospital Wing afterwards. I was kind of out of it, so I didn’t get to tell you.”

“Oh, that’s no problem! Your head was fine?” Severus asks.

“After a day in prison, yes,” Harry says.

“Now—a bit of warning, this teacher is completely _insane_ —” But before Alan Avery can finish talking, the door opens, and their professor walks inside so Severus and Harry twist back to face the front of the classroom.

The teacher reaches her desk, throws a large stack of books onto its surface, and leans against it and faces the class. She looks cruel. She stares for several seconds at every single person there—Harry feels strangely uneasy because he doesn’t remember any stories about insane professors from his godfather Sirius. When she has finished her perusal, she folds her arms and then sighs dramatically.

“I don’t know _why_ I agreed to this,” the professor says this with an American accent as if it was a comment she was trying to keep private but wanted everyone to hear. “I _despise_ teaching you. You’re all monsters. Insignificant worms suitable to be crushed beneath my heels. Regardless for my distaste, I must make an introductory speech—so, welcome back, you fools. Blah, blah-blah, blah-blah.”

She moves her hand like it is a mouth as the lilting rhythm of her last five words express her utter distaste for both humanity and teaching. For some reason, Harry has a feeling that his future professor, who he is in fact seated beside, somehow managed to model his teaching style off of this strange and entirely unfriendly persona. 

“Today I’m going to torture you—” she smiles, baring her teeth and running her fingers up and down her wand, while Harry tries to make himself seem as small as possible in his chair. She continues, “I will then try to extract information about your worst nightmares—oh, where did I put that?” she says, this time truly to herself, and then walks around to search the papers on top of her desk for a few seconds. She shoves the pile of books onto the floor where they bend back on themselves, and a few daring souls make small _eeps_ in dismay for their now ruined spines, and then the professor casts them all on fire with a nonverbal gesture of her wand—causing more _eeps_ —and begins to tear through the papers on her desk viciously, when—suddenly—she slams her hands on her desk, stands straight up, and screeches, “BLACK!”

Every single head turns away from the smouldering pile of literature to face the teenaged version of Sirius Black, who is attempting to discretely place a chocolate biscuit in his mouth. His eyes grow wide and he throws his hands up in the air and the cookie cracks into pieces as it falls noisily back onto the desk.

“You _know_ my policy about food in the classroom,” the teacher says with violent fury—almost hissing. She waves her wand threateningly. “Since _I_ can’t eat in here, _you_ can’t eat in here! Fair is fair! Now get that out of my sight! Vanish it! Now!”

“ _E-evanesco_!” Sirius Black says weakly and the chocolate biscuit, which Harry must admit does look very delicious, vanishes.

And as soon as it disappears, the professor immediately starts searching for her misplaced item again. The books have really started to burn now, and only when the smoke tickles the professors nose does she absently douse the flames with excessive water, effectively destroying any attempt to restore them.

Harry leans over to Severus and whispers, “Is this normal?” He is starting to doubt whatever Ian and Luke told him about this professor. They obviously are not taking defence this year if they call her great and kind.

Severus nods solemnly, but motions with his hand to stop talking.

Harry cautiously turns back to watch the American professor, who apparently found whatever she was searching for. She was reading it with still furious eyes, and when she throws the parchment at the desk, she misses it entirely and it dips and dives aimlessly as it hurries toward damp oblivion upon the stone floor.

“We’re doing nonverbal shields today,” she says. “I need a volunteer.”

Everyone immediately looks down at the floor, except Harry because he doesn’t know _what_ is going on, and so the professor grins a terrifying grin and says, “Thank you for volunteering!”

Startled, Harry points to himself. “Wait, me?”

The professor gestures him to come forward with clear impatience. “Yes, you!”

“It’s my first day!” Harry protests as he starts to stand up.

“So?” the professor says mockingly. “That’s no excuse for incompetence.”

And Harry realises that she’s probably correct, but that still doesn’t mean she’s not terrifying.

“Watch and learn, class,” the professor announces. “This newbie will now cast a shield charm of his or her choice—” Harry looks at himself with obvious confusion because he thought he very clearly fell into the masculine gender assumption category. “—and I will attempt to break his or her shield. I will attack you with all manner of spells, combat or otherwise useful. If a shield is made verbally, you will face no mercy. Let’s just say you better hope I don’t perform anything Unforgivable, if you do.”

Harry looks at his teacher with horror, because who the hell is this woman, but he cannot contemplate this topic for too long, because she is almost about to send a spell at him—and Harry is thankful that he actually knows how to cast nonverbal shields (that was one of the first spells he learned _how_ to cast nonverbally, to be honest, ever since that debacle on the first day of 6th year Defence with Snape and how he had expected them to cast nonverbal shields and, well, after that, Harry made a point to learn)—and so he desperately hopes that he is ready for whatever is about to come.

So when the professor shouts, “ _Expulso_!” Harry is ready with a nonverbal _Protego_ that quickly forms and blocks the spell. He holds the spell, ready for the incoming onslaught of spells that the professor has announced, but when the professor doesn’t cast anymore, and instead looks both impressed and confused, Harry lowers the shield—perhaps this was all this was intended to be?

It was a trick, as clearly, the professor wanted him to lower his defences. “ _Diffindo_!” she says.

 _Protego!_ Harry casts the shield again nonverbally barely in time for the severing charm to dissipate against it.

“ _Incendio_! _Reducto_! _Aqua eructo_! _Flipendo_! _Depulso_!” the professor says in rapid order. Harry maintains his shield, and when its fall on accident, he quickly remakes it.

The professor shows no sign of letting up on him, and Harry is almost frightened by the insanity of this situation—he seriously could be injured by some of her spells. But she shows no sign of slowing—and Harry is quickly moving past mild confusion into major fear because he has no idea _what_ he has done to offend _this_ professor yet—and so when the professor takes a second to breathe (after a fierce _immobulus_ and _bombarda_ combination), Harry drops the shield and then casts silently _expelliarmus_ at his professor, who is not expecting this at all, and so is not prepared when her wand flies out of her hand and into Harry’s.

“Please stop,” Harry says with a strained voice that betrays his attempt to portray confidence. His heart is racing, and he is gripping the professors wand tightly in his left hand while his own is still pointed at her.

And, to his disbelief, instead of being angry or furious like he expects, she immediately relaxes, smiles for the first time, and exclaims, “Finally! Someone fought back!”

And Harry just stands there, still slightly shocked because _he has no idea what’s going on_ still, and he just wants to go home, back to the 90s where everything made sense and he doesn’t have to try to avoid looking at his parents and his murdered godfather sitting happily (granted, they don’t look too happy right now, but no one does in this room except for this insane professor) with their betrayer.

“What?” Harry asks.

“All year,” the professor says, “I have been waiting for someone to _fight back_. All year! All year I have been awful to this class—I’ve berated you, belittled you, threatened you, and put you through extremely difficult and unfair tasks and humiliated you in front of your peers. I’ve done ridiculous things! Burnt your assignments, destroyed your belongings—and not a single one of you fought back until this newbie Hufflepuff randomly showed up. You better thank him, because now we can finally start actually _learning_. I thought this class would be the only one who would never actually get this first lesson!”

“You mean to say,” a voice says from the left hand side of the room, “that you have acted like a lunatic for two terms _on purpose_ in order to provoke a reaction from us?”

“That’s exactly what I’ve tried to do!” the professor says. “I’d like to introduce myself now. Hi, class. I’m Professor Whitby, and welcome to this year’s Defence Against the Dark Arts class. You have finally fought off your first enemy you will face in this class and this next term will continue to be absolutely miserable for you because I need you to catch up to where I wanted you to be if you had actually got this lesson on the first day back in September!”

“So,” the same voice says from the left hand side of the room, “you mean to say that because we actually listened to you because you were our professor, we _failed_?”

“That’s exactly what I mean to say,” Professor Whitby says. “All year—literally _all year_ —I have lied and said I was going to perform Unforgiveable curses on you and what did you all do? Nothing! You all became very good at nonverbal shields, well done—but let’s be real here, none of you actually did something to help yourself get _out_ of this situation. I know some of the Gryffindors complained to Minerva, but I easily talked her out of doing anything. This is really a shame, don’t you think? Every single other defence class did something within the first week of classes. So bravo, newbie, bravo. You just saved these miserable bastards lives.”

Harry doesn’t know what to say in response to this. “Can I sit down now?” he asks.

Professor Whitby smiles. “No, sorry, I still need you because that was one hell of a disarming charm—and it was nonverbal right? That’s exactly what I want to teach these kids since that’s going to be one of the most useful things they need after a shield. You’re going to help me.”

Harry clearly looks horrified by this statement—this means he has to _talk_ to the class and _doesn’t she know that his_ parents _are sitting_ right there _and how on earth is he supposed to keep his composure in front of them_ —so Professor Whitby waves a hand dismissively at him.

“Oh, fine, sit down for now, but you’ll come back up eventually,” she says.

Harry quickly walks back to his desk and sits down while the professor explains that she wanted to see how they would defend themselves against a person in a position of authority—how they would act if someone they were supposed to trust was doing something wrong.

“And I’m really disappointed in all of you, too,” Professor Whitby says. “Newbie here is _new_. You had no idea if he even knows how to cast a nonverbal shield and none of you volunteered to go in his place. That’s just cruel.”

The Gryffindors all look ashamed at this remark while Harry just shrugs off the look Severus is giving him—one of apology—because Harry doesn’t blame any of them. At this moment in time, Harry doubts that he would have volunteered to go in place of a new student. Maybe that makes him a bad person, but he wants to try and stay alive as long as possible. He has to make it back to 1997 _somehow_.

After Professor Whitby finishes berating the class, she begins to instruct the class on how to perform a wandless disarming charm. “It’s really simple,” she says. “Same principles as a nonverbal shield which you’re all pretty good at—so just start practicing I guess. Pair up, and give it a go! Newbie’s cast was quite good—ask him or her for help.”

Her usage of “quite” throws the class off a bit at first until they remember that Americans use it differently than they do. Severus turns to look at Harry for a second before bursting out into laughter that is picked up by several individuals on the right hand side of the room.

“Nice going, Smith!” Alan Avery says.

“I am _so_ confused,” Harry says.

“Where did I put my wand?” Professor Whitby asks herself, unaware that Harry has not let go of her wand since he removed it from her.

“I’ve got it,” Harry says. “Sorry about that.”

Professor Whitby walks over and gratefully receives her wand. “You’re getting a gold star for today’s lesson,” she says brightly. She waves her wand and a tiny adhesive gold star flies out from her desk to attach itself to Harry’s school robe.

“Brill,” Harry says.

“Hey, Snivellus!” a voice calls from the other side of the room. Harry doesn’t recognise it, so he assumes this means it is his father.

Severus Snape bristles next to him. Alan Avery throws the Gryffindor side of the room a glare.

“Just ignore them, Severus,” Avery hisses over the insult Harry’s father continues to give. “You _know_ they just want a reaction.”

“But do they _have_ to call me that?” Severus grips his wand a little bit tighter.

Harry feigns complete ignorance, something he is rapidly becoming competent at. “Why are they doing that?”

Avery completely ignores the person next to him in favour of leaning so far over the table that he must be in pain. “Since first year, a group of Gryffindors decided that they were going to make Snape’s life miserable. They’re always attacking him and no matter what we do, they don’t get in trouble for it.”

“That’s rubbish,” Harry says.

Alan Avery nods. “It is, but the only thing we can do right now is _ignore them_.”

Severus Snape shakes his head. “That won’t _stop_ them,” Severus says.

“But reacting won’t either!” Avery hisses. “And you know they won’t get in trouble if you get hurt!”

“What the hell is wrong with this school?” Harry asks rhetorically.

Avery shrugs. “A lot. But _everyone_ knows that those five are just complete tossers.”

“There’s five of them?” Harry is surprised—he always thought that there were four.

Severus rubs his shoulder. “Mainly Black, Lupin, Pettigrew, and Potter,” he says.

Avery makes a sound that people make after they’ve engaged in the same discussion multiple times. “You’re forgetting Evans. Ever since last year, she’s been just as bad, if not worse.”

“I don’t want to think about it,” Severus says. “If I just pretend that she doesn’t exist, then I can’t be offended.”

“Your funeral,” Avery says. “But yeah, those four blokes, and then Lily Evans. She used to be our friend, but then after OWLs last year, Black and Potter attacked Severus right in front of everyone in our year, and so Severus lashed out at everyone who tried to help, including her, but then she basically went completely insane. She’s been a nightmare. It’s a shame.”

“I thought she was one of my best friends,” Severus says bitterly.

Harry doesn’t really know how to respond to the fact that apparently his own _mother_ was one of Snape’s bullies so he doesn’t say anything at all for several seconds.

“Well, I’m fairly certain that I’m already a nutter so you don’t have to worry about that from me,” Harry says.

Avery laughs. “Oh, we already know you’re insane after what you just did—you basically saved our lives for this class!”

Snape nods. “Old news, Smith. You forget that the first time we met, you were falling down the front steps of the castle.”

“That wasn’t my fault!” Harry says.

“Sure, it wasn’t,” Snape says with a smile. “Now help me with this—do you focus more on the incantation or the wand movement when it’s nonverbal?”

“I focus more on the outcome,” Harry says. “When it’s nonverbal and I think about the incantation, I end up mouthing the words and that’s not good. So if I want to cast _expelliarmus_ , then I just visualise my target being disarmed.”

“But you still do the wand movement?” Snape says.

“Well, at first, yes,” Harry says.

“At first?” Avery interjects.

“It slows you down—and I found out I didn’t need it when I was duelling someone and didn’t have the time to wave so I ended up just doing a point and shoot?” Harry says.

“And you didn’t think the incantation?” Avery asks.

Harry shakes his head. “It’s five syllables—lots of offensive magic is only three or four, so you can’t afford that time.”

Severus Snape points his wand at Harry and narrows his eyes and appears to be concentrating very hard. Nothing happens.

“You okay?” Harry asks. “You’re going cross-eyed.”

“It doesn’t work!” Severus says.

“Of course not!” Harry says. “I had to do it the normal way, first. That’s why I said I did it _at first_. So try again—think of the incantation, do the wand movement, but focus more on the desire outcome of the spell than any individual part.”

Harry sits there and watches Severus Snape for almost a minute—and then his wand twitches and Harry allows it to fall out of his hand to the floor. “You did it!” Harry says.

“Bloody hell, that’s hard,” Severus says.

“My turn,” Avery says. It takes Avery a little bit longer, but he too eventually achieves the same result.

“Great job,” Harry says. Harry points his want at Severus again, and disarms him.

Unfortunately, this happens right when the Gryffindor pack appears to be looking over. “Oh, can poor Snivellus not hold onto his wand?”

“Merlin, do they ever shut up?” Harry says under his breath as he watches Severus flinch. Harry takes a fortifying breath before shifting in his chair to look straight into the eyes of his father—James Potter.

Harry points his wand in his direction, raises an eyebrow, and promptly disarms James Potter. This retaliation, however, does not result in further escalation, but ends up in riotous laughter from James Potter’s companions.

“Oh, James! That Smith kid got you! He’s such a Hufflepuff!” Sirius says between laughs.

Harry rolls his eyes as he shifts back to face Avery and Snape, who have acted like they saw nothing at all.

“Cheers,” Harry says, rubbing his scar.


	3. Maelstrom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be advised that the archive warning now applies.

Harry’s schedule is somehow unsynchronised from the rest of his housemates. While he does have a large portion of classes with his fellow Hufflepuffs, he often finds himself the lone representative while the majority of the Hufflepuffs go into different sections. He’s not entirely sure _why_ his schedule ended up like this—and Ian and Luke (“I’m Luke Ridley”) don’t seem to understand this either—but Harry can’t complain because he is getting to know a lot more people that he otherwise could not.

But Harry settles into his schedule as the weeks slowly pass by. His scar occasionally throbs with pain, but it is nothing unbearable. He spends a lot of time with Ian and Luke, but also finds himself partnered with Severus Snape an exorbitant amount of time. But the more time Harry spends with him, the less Harry understands how on earth the grizzly professor of his future somehow arose from this kind and actually _very nice_ young man he finds himself rapidly becoming friends with. And, to Harry’s surprise, Avery is fairly funny as well.

Harry _is_ discomfited by the fact that none of the supposed turmoil that theoretically should be happening in the world actually comes up in conversation with _anyone_ Harry knows, nor does he overhear anything about it. The papers are quiet, and he can’t even begin to imagine Avery—who, to Harry’s complete shock claims to be a pacifist, of all things—somehow getting tangled up in the Death Eaters or Lord Voldemort.

But, Harry also thinks this could be because he is blissfully ignoring any and all warning signs. Regardless, for the first time in Harry’s life, he feels that he is honestly just _enjoying_ being a student.

Harry is good at lying to himself.

Harry ends up studying Defence with Snape and Avery most evenings as they desperately try to catch up. But the two of them always end up bringing such fascinating supplementary material that Harry can’t help but look through.

One Thursday evening, Harry has just finished helping Avery catch up with the day’s earlier material, when Snape pulls out a tattered book from his bag.

“What’s that you’ve got there, Sev?” Avery asks as he throws himself into a chair.

“A seventh year loaned it to me. He said it’s got some useful curses that we should know,” Snape explains.

Harry doesn’t manage to catch a glimpse of the title, but when Severus opens up the book a bookmarked page, Harry is immediately intrigued by the spell written there. It’s an interesting spell that’s colloquially called the pretzel-maker. As the name suggests, it ties the target into knots and requires a specific counter curse to reverse.

“ _Verander krakeling_ ,” Harry says the words with horrendous pronunciation.

“You’re saying it completely wrong. Ver-anh-der Khrah-kel-ing,” Snape says. “It’s Dutch.”

“Wand movement is a lowercase Greek delta,” Harry reads on. “Counter curse is _tot ziens krakeling_ —seriously?”

“Hm?” Snape looks up from where he is practicing the wand movement.

“It translates literally to _good-bye pretzel_. Wand movement is a shooing motion,” Harry says. “That’s absolutely ridiculous, but I love it.”

They practice the incantation. “I can’t believe that the Dutch word for pretzel is literally the hardest word to say in this spell,” Avery complains. “ _Krakeling_ , _krakeling_ , _krakeling_.”

“I have to try this spell,” Harry say after a short pause. “Who volunteers?”  
Snape and Avery both exchange a weary glance.

“What, come on! You can’t just show me these awesome spells and not expect me to want to use them!” Harry says.

“You shouldn’t practice new spells on people. How about we get a dummy, or some rope instead? What happens if you do it wrong and we end up permanently pretzeled?” Snape suggests.

They decide to conjure piles of rope, figuring that they could at least see if they have the general idea of the pretzeling mechanic under control, since the spell _was_ initially created for pretzels.

When Harry casts _verander krakeling_ for the first time, he is both shocked by the power he feels flooding through him and the result he gets. The ropes on the floor are tied together in incomprehensible knots, and examining them by hand seems to show they are simply too tangled to undo.

So Harry tries the counter curse— _tot ziens krakeling_ —and the ropes unravel to their initial form. Closer examination of the ropes show that there is some minor wear and tear on some of places where there was probably significant stress placed on the rope, but other than that, the rope appears to be in pristine condition. For a second, Harry is momentarily horrified by the fact that the ropes _are_ damaged, and that if somehow he did this to a _person_ , then there’s no doubt in his mind that they would be in excruciating pain.

But—despite this, Harry can’t get over how _awesome_ that spell was, how _easily_ it came to him once he was able to figure out how to say the foreign words. So despite his misgivings, he tells himself that he would only use this spell to pull pranks on his friends, to maybe tangle their ties or shoelaces, Harry turns around to beam at Avery and Snape, and he finds them absolutely giddy in response.

“That was brilliant, Smith!” Avery shouts. “Absolutely perfect—your first try, right?”

Harry nods, exhilarated. _It’s a spell for making pretzels_.

“A complete natural,” Snape says with a smile.

“Please tell me you have more weird Dutch spells,” Harry says with a brilliant smile.

Snape smirks. “Oh, I have _plenty_.”

And so Harry starts to spend all of his time with the two kind and supportive Slytherins. Harry helps them with Defence, while Snape helps with Potions, and Avery helps with Transfiguration, while they all mutually help out with Charms and agree that Herbology, while useful, isn’t their cup of tea.

There’s a few incidents with Potter’s group of Gryffindors (and isn’t that startling—how quickly Harry has become accustomed to thinking of his own father as _Potter_ , and how rapidly he has become completely settled in his Smith identity), but nothing major.

When they aren’t studying, they spend their time learning every spell in the weird Dutch book Severus has. Some of the spells they all agree are a bit nasty—like the one designed for eye removal. But they all learn it, maybe somewhat reluctantly, because even though it sounds absolutely disgusting, they all acknowledge it would be _very_ useful in extracting eyes of newts for potions. _Which it was obviously made for_.

The Dutch book is quickly depleted, but then Avery manages to get his hands on a Slovak book, and they spend a month learning all of the spells in that book. Some of them have dubious uses, and Harry can’t imagine _why_ you would want to boil blood, but really, the spells are fascinating and _damn_ \-- no matter how good his friends are, Harry is _good_ at casting them. He’s assuming this is because of his natural affinity for Defence, but it’s clear to the three of them that Harry outpaces them by far.

One night, after their regular studying, Harry finds himself terribly nervous.

“Hey, Alan,” Harry says. Do you mind if you or Sev could pick up another spell book sometime? I don’t want to be rude, but—”

“But you’ve finished it already?” Severus says with a smile. “You’re brilliant, Harry. It’s really incredible. I can’t think of anyone who can master spells as quick as you.”

“Have you _seen_ me in Transfiguration?” Harry asks.

Severus dismisses this with a wave of his hand. “Bah!” he says. “Transfiguration is a lesser magic. This stuff, though? This is _powerful_ magic. I’m sure Alan or I could find another book for you.”

“Is it okay with you two? I don’t want you to think that I’m bored of helping you, because I’m not! I will totally keep helping you with the spells if you want me too!” Harry is quick to say. “I enjoy learning with you.”

“Sure. Not all of us can master multiple spells in one evening,” Avery smiles easily. “I’d totally get you more books, but the year ends in only a week.”

Harry deflates only a little. “Oh, you’re right. Don’t worry about it then—we can pick right back up next year.”

“But what about over the summer? What are your summer plans? You’ve never told us,” Avery says.

“I don’t have any, really,” Harry says.

“Well—if you want to look at more spells, come stay with me,” Avery says. “I’ve got a whole library of these sort of spells. My dad collects them. And my parents don’t care about the whole underage magic thing. And I really do mean it, I’m not saying this to be polite.”

Harry lifts up his head. “Really? Is that okay with them?”

“I would’ve asked you sooner, but I wanted their permission first,” Avery says.

“I’d love to!” Harry says, “What are you doing, Sev?”

“I’m going home, but I’ll be there too for a couple weeks,” he says.

“That’s brilliant!” Harry says. “How long am I invited for?”

“The whole summer,” Avery says. “It’s not like you’ve got anywhere else to go, right?”

Harry nods his head. “Thank you, again,” he says.

“You just have to come to a couple parties with me,” Avery says with a smirk. “I want to introduce you to a whole bunch of people!”

“If it grants me access to your library, I suppose I will oblige,” Harry says dramatically.

Before Harry can blink, the term is over; he’s in the foyer of Alan Avery’s home. Alan Avery—one of his best friends. Alan Avery, who will attack him in the spring of 1997, in twenty years. Alan Avery—who is _not_ evil, and _not_ part of a mystical Slytherin gang he was told about by his dead godfather. Alan Avery—who is actually _really nice_.

Avery’s parents are also actually _really nice_ and they greet Harry with open arms and when Avery tells him with excited and bright smiles about their study group and supplemental studies and how Harry’s mastered all of the spells in the Dutch spell book _Mysterieuze Magie_ and the Slovak book _Kúzlo Tmy_ , his parents become more and more elated as Avery talks eagerly about how he learned all of this in only a _term_ and before he had never even heard about this type of magic and then Mr Avery looks at Harry with a giant smile and says, “Welcome home, son,” and Harry smiles so wide his face hurts, because he has _no idea what’s going on_ (although that seems to be the standard state of his life in the year 1977), but it seems to be working out pretty well for him, because he has very good friends, he is learning powerful magic, and one of his best friend’s parents just called him _son_ like he was part of the family—and then suddenly Mrs Avery has wrapped him up in a hug and is saying something Harry cannot understand or maybe Harry does understand it but is refusing to hear and comprehend, but Harry nods because that is the answer they want to hear and then they smile and him—and then Avery smiles too, and then Avery grabs his hand and drags him _with_ his parents toward a room that seems dedicated to spellwork and there Mr and Mrs Avery test Harry’s knowledge on all of the things he has self-studied over the past several months and they are so _proud_ of Harry that he doesn’t even care that they decide to not conjure any rope to cast the pretzel-maker on, but instead they insist he demonstrate the spell on a rat which isn’t right—but they wash away any guilt he might feel because they tell him that _the rat was old anyways and what better way to die than to help a wizard grow_ and because the rat dies so quickly—so when he casts the pretzel-maker on the rat—when he says those words— _verander krakeling_ —and when the rat squeals and then twists and contorts and somehow not just its limbs but its _entire body_ ends up in a single horrific, bleeding and bulging, writhing knot, Harry simply cannot find it in himself to feel bad about this because he is being given so much praise and everyone is telling him that he is so good and so impressive and that they are so _proud_ of Harry that surely what he did is a good thing—it must be, because no one would be proud of a person for doing the wrong thing.

(Harry is good at lying to himself.)

And so, because of the sweet praises and tight hugs and the seemingly unconditional love that Mr and Mrs Avery lavish Harry with, Harry does not argue or fight back when they have him demonstrate the spells from the Slovak _Kúzlo Tmy_ on animals.

The next day, when Mr Avery tells Harry that he would like to tutor him personally, Harry is so taken aback by this gesture that he has no idea what to do in response except embrace the man and thank him gratuitously.

And over the next two weeks, Harry begins to learn magic that he feels no guilt for—because Mr and Mrs Avery and Alan Avery all smile at him and hug him and tell him that there is nothing to feel guilty for, and so Harry decides that he will believe them.

And he hears their whispers and he hears them saying that he will become “his perfect heir” and “his prefect apprentice” and Harry cannot believe that they might actually consider _adopting_ him or offering him an _apprenticeship_.

He learns the spells and he is good at them—he is _very_ good at them. So much that Mr Avery cannot stop smiling when he looks at Harry, which makes Harry smile—which makes everyone smile—and so they are happy and Harry finds himself wishing that _this_ was his family because they love him, and care for him, and want the best for him.

Harry is running up the stairs one evening when he trips and hits his head against the bannister. The pain wasn’t severe, but his forehead would likely be tender the next two days. Mainly Harry is grateful that no one was there to see his embarrassing fall.

Harry rubs his forehead as it throbs, irritated with the inconvenient timing of its pain, but Harry then realises that his scar isn’t hurting him—and _hasn’t_ been hurting him since he starting practicing this magic. In fact—Harry rubs his forehead frantically—he can’t even _find_ the scar on his forehead. He regains his balance and runs to the nearest mirror and stares right at his forehead, pulling back his fringe and realising—

The scar is gone.

 _The scar is gone_.

 _What the fuck—the scar is gone_.

He can’t remember the last time he noticed it on his forehead. It had simply been such a part of him for so long that he no longer even saw it when he looked in the mirror, but he thought that was because he wasn’t seeing it, not because _it wasn’t there_.

Harry pulls on his hair slightly. It was there before the Slovak book—Harry is certain. He remembers Ian McAllen saying something about it when they got drunk one night after a Herbology exam. He was just about to finish the Dutch book—and maybe—he’s got no idea.

It just—vanished. But what did that _mean_?

If only Hermione—

 _Hermione_. He has so long to go before he can see her again. And so long before he can tell her that they were so wrong about Avery and Snape and how they were actually _really nice_ , and it is so long before he can tell her about this really cool magic they’re teaching him and she would—

She probably wouldn’t like it, would she?

But Ron would. Ron would—right?

Harry shakes his head furiously because he can’t afford to think like that because his friends _aren’t even born and his scar is gone_. 

Harry closes his eyes and takes a few deep breaths. Mrs Avery told him to do that every time he felt overwhelmed one late night after he woke up after a nightmare and made his way down to the kitchen to find her there waiting with a mug of hot coco.

What could it possibly mean? Is Harry no longer the prophecy child? Does the absence of his scar mean that there’s no more Lord Voldemort vs Harry Potter show-down? Since Harry Potter doesn’t exist anymore—he’s Harry _Smith_ now. Or could it mean that he’s no longer marked by Voldemort and he somehow changed the past enough that Lord Voldemort is going to target Neville Longbottom in the future?

Harry has _no idea_ what is going on. 

But Harry has no way of figuring this out. So he takes the path of least resistance: Harry decides to let it go—there’s no point worrying about it. He has no idea how to figure out why it’s gone, and it’s likely just faded. It has been 16 years—almost 17 years since he got it. It’s about time it faded away.

That’s it. That has to be it.

When Severus Snape arrives, Harry has been improving exponentially. So when Snape challenges Harry to a duel, Harry smirks and bows.

Snape lasts only a few seconds before Harry has him pinned to the floor with his own fingernails imprisoning him in the granite tile. Snape shrieks in surprise and horror because _his fingernails are so long they dug into the granite tile and trapped him to the floor_. And then Snape looks down at his feet and he shrieks again because it’s not just his fingernails, it’s his toenails too.

Harry is standing in the same position he was in initially with a smile and is spinning his wand nonchalantly through his fingers. Avery is to the side and is looking both horrified and amazed at the same time and isn’t sure which emotion he should let win so he settles for a quick single clap and then asks Harry to undo the monstrosity of Snape’s nails.

Harry does so easily, and he extends a hand to his best friend and when he pulls Snape to his feet, he immediately gives him a hug.

“Hi,” he says.

Snape squeezes him until it hurts. “You monster,” he says. “That was _disgusting_.”

“But aren’t you impressed?” Harry says with a smile.

Snape squeezes a final time before stepping back and nodded. “Yes, but please— _never_ do that again to me.”

“I wasn’t planning on it. I just learned it today!” Harry says happily.

Snape raises his eyebrows in disbelief and then turns to face Avery slack-jawed.

Avery shrugs. “Don’t look at me. Our prodigy has been devouring _everything_. My dad has been tutoring him, even. I’ve never seen him so happy before. My parents have practically adopted him.”

“I like your family,” Harry says.

“Well, they love you,” Avery says with an amused huff.

“What’s on the agenda for today, then?” Snape says after he flexes his fingers a few times and double checks his nails to make sure they’re the correct length. He fixes his shoes with an easy point of his wand and half-heartedly glares at Harry while he does so.

“Nothing tonight. But tomorrow is the main event of the holiday—the Summer Gala.” Avery looks at Snape with deep eyes as he says this. “All of the most important people in the country will be there,” he says.

Snape nods slowly. “Anything afterwards?”

“There’s an afterparty for only a few attendees,” Avery says. “But guests are only invited at the Gala in person only so there’s no advanced warning.”

“So if you go to the Gala, you _could_ get invited to the afterparty?” Harry says. “What happens if you don’t want to go to the afterparty, but you get an invite? Could you give to someone else.”

Avery looks at Harry with eyes that are almost pitying before he says, “If you don’t want to go to the afterparty, you don’t go to the Gala.”

“But the Gala is the biggest night of the summer,” Harry says. “Isn’t it a huge social _faux pas_ not to go?”

“Well, of course,” Avery says with a smile. “Which is why we’re going. And besides, we _definitely_ want to go to the afterparty. It’s supposed to be like nothing you’ve ever seen before.”

Harry returns the smile with ease.

Snape smiles at Harry as well. “Besides—you are _so_ getting into the afterparty. Mr and Mrs Avery won’t be able to shut up about you, you realise? You’re going to have to show off to _everyone_ at the afterparty. You better make sure you’re not rusty on any of the spells tonight,” Snape says with a teasing smile.

“I’m sorry—I can’t stop them!” Avery says with a laugh. “They’re just so impressed with you—and well, we are too. We’re so proud of you. You’ve grown _so much_ over the past couple months. It’s really incredible.”

Harry smiles. “Thank you,” he says. Avery’s name is called from a distant room, so Avery vanishes off into that direction, leaving Snape and Harry alone.

Snape smiles. “He’s right, you know.”

Harry looks at Snape. “About what?”

“About how much you’ve grown. Emotionally, mentally—even physically. You had a growth spurt, don’t you realise? You’re almost the same height as me now!” Snape says with a smile.

“That’s rubbish,” Harry says.

Severus smiles even broader than before. He grabs Harry gently and pulls him close up to him. He demonstrates with a hand how the top of Harry’s head meets the top of his own forehead. “See?” he says, without letting Harry go.

“Oh, alright,” Harry says. He is standing so very close to Severus right now.

Harry meets Severus’s eyes with ease and smiles. “Thank you,” he says.

“What for?” Severus asks.

“For believing in me,” Harry says. “Do you _really_ think I’m going to get into the afterparty?”

“Definitely,” Severus says. “A lot of important people have been rooting for you.”

They stand there quietly in silence—almost in a hug, but just very close together. Severus is holding onto Harry’s arms. Harry’s hands are twisting the other tightly.

Severus looks at Harry carefully. “Har—do you know what the afterparty is?”

Harry stands very still because although he is very good at lying to himself, he’s not sure he can lie through this.

Harry nods his head. “Yes,” he says quietly, “I do.”

“And are you willing to bear our Lord’s mark?” Severus asks just as gently. “It will make no difference to me if you are unable at this time.”

And then all of Harry’s lies come crashing, crashing down because—because—because—

Because—

Because _this magic_ is Dark Magic. Because his scar is gone. Because this afterparty is an Initiation Ceremony to join the Death Eaters. Because Mr and Mrs Avery only want to present to Lord Voldemort a talented dark wizard for the ranks. Because he’s really, _really_ good at Dark Magic—better than any other magic he’s ever tried before. Because Dark Magic comes _so naturally_ to him that Harry is positive he is being groomed to be the Dark Lord’s protégé. Because his scar is gone. Because he doesn’t feel guilt very much anymore. Because he doesn’t feel much of _anything_ anymore and Harry’s pretty sure that that emotional and mental growth isn’t so much of a growth as it is a take-over because his scar is gone. His scar is gone, and he’s about to be initiated as a Death Eater. Because his best friends are _good people_ and they want to be Death Eaters. Because his parents are cruel to an actually _really nice_ guy and because his scar is gone. Because he’s not sure he’s completely Harry anymore. Because his scar is gone. Because he’s positive, without a doubt, that the scar was a horcrux—and that since the scar is gone, somehow—somehow—it’s inside of him and that means that he’s not really himself anymore, so why bother trying to be good, really, since he’s already part evil Dark Lord and Dark Magic is something _he’s_ _actually really fucking good at_ —and because—

Because—

Harry cries.

He cries because he knows he has lost. He cries because he has been pretending that he hasn’t known this for weeks now—ever since the scar went missing—and he cries because he doesn’t know what to do. He cries because he doesn’t want to die. He cries because he has friends that genuinely care about him, and they have similar interests—but how much of those interests are actually _him_ and not _Voldemort_? He cries because he’s not sure he can fight against this strong urge to just _give in_. To take the easy way—to just follow the darkness down into the power it promises. And it promises _so much power_. It’s easy to see why people go this way. It’s intoxicating. The feeling—that rush of adrenaline, that sudden flare of focus and increased attention—but unlike regular adrenaline rushes, there’s no withdrawal, there’s no disorientation afterwards—it’s just constant _rush_ after _rush_ after _rush_ and Harry can’t help but _love_ the rush. It makes him feel special—and people here love him because he is talented and good at something, and they notice his strength and they want him to flourish and become _really good_ at it. So why wouldn’t he just give in—where people care about him?

Because Harry remembers 1997. He remembers Hermione, Ron, Luna, Neville. He remembers Remus, and Tonks—his friends and his family, and he remembers that—he remembers that—

He remembers never seeing himself. He remembers never noticing a Death Eater that went by Smith. He remembers never hearing anyone talk about a Death Eater Smith—but—but _why_ does he feel so strongly that he should? That he should go forth and beg and grovel and lay down before the man who has ruined his life, who murdered his parents, who tried to kill him countless times. Why does he feel so powerfully that he should submit himself before the man who destroys the entire Wizarding World that it never recovers fully?

It has to be that fragment of soul—that persistent and intoxicating and reasonable piece of his mind that is just telling him to _give in_ because it’s what he actually wants. Because fighting is hard—and he has done his part, and he should let others do the fighting. He should just learn and there is no better way to learn than at the feet of the greatest master of all time.

And then Harry remembers that he never heard about an apprentice, or an heir to Voldemort.

But then Harry thinks—Harry thinks—and he thinks about how _useful_ it would be to have someone who is so _trusted_ by Voldemort. Someone who has been taught by the Dark Lord and become his confidant—someone who has access to him, someone who has access to his thoughts, goals—that someone could work in the shadows to bring him down. That person could be him?

Could it?

But is that just another way Voldemort is trying to convince him to give in? Because there’s no way someone could stare that close into the abyss without it staring back—because there’s no way someone could balance on that precipice above hell without falling in—but Harry has done the impossible before.

He wants the knowledge. He wants to know the Dark Magic that he is so _good_ at. But he doesn’t want to be a slave. He doesn’t want to be Marked, and he doesn’t want to—but is his mind powerful enough to withstand an investigation? But—he doesn’t have to be, does he? He’s already a piece of his soul—he just offers himself up like that, right?

No—that would lead to immediate imprisonment in some underground cavern.

But—if he reveals he is a parselmouth—and tries to go that route, of a potential family member—then maybe he could truly be safe because no one would ever suspect family?

Or maybe time magic will protect his secrets! No, surely not—that’s foolish. Time has no feelings.

But there’s nothing else to do. The party is tomorrow, and there’s no way Harry can back out of it now, because his friends have been so _obvious_ about how it’s a Death Eater meeting that to claim ignorance is to claim complete stupidity and Harry must stop lying to himself.

The Dark Lord Voldemort likely already knows about the existence of the Dark Arts prodigy and Hufflepuff Harry Smith.

But he doesn’t have to know that this Hufflepuff will be predicted to be his downfall—maybe? It is a lot of work to destroy an uprising, and besides, he might have some good points when they inevitably end up discussing the topic of war and politics.

But anyways, it’s settled. Harry Smith of Hufflepuff, formerly Harry Potter, The-Boy-Who-Lived, is a dark wizard. He is a dark wizard. He is going to take the Dark Mark, and he is going to love how it feels and how it will induce that adrenaline rush when its placed and he is going to love being owned because that’s his real purpose in life, right? To be protected. It’s not his responsibility to fight. He’s just a kid. His duty is to learn as much as he can. So he has to take every opportunity that comes his way, and if this opportunity just so happens to come with a weird tattoo and weird club, he’ll take it. The knowledge that will come from this will doubtless be worth any weird initiation hazing they have planned.

 _—because the scar is gone_.

His tears are gone almost as rapidly as they came. He blinks twice. “Yes,” he says. “I want it.”

The confused smile Harry sees from Severus Snape is so beautiful that it makes the sun dull in comparison. “I’m glad,” Severus says, before embracing Harry with a hug that shows no sign of ending soon.


	4. The Dark Lord

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be advised this chapter contains scenes of dubious consent.

Harry is approached immediately at the Summer Gala by a man he doesn’t recognise. He is a small and skinny man with greying hair where each individual strand stands out boldly combed over his balding head in strict denial of his unfortunate scalp and obvious refusal to use cosmetic potions.

“Mr Harry Smith, it is with great honour that I extend to you an invitation to the _afterparty_ ,” he says with an exaggerated bow. Everyone around him stills—they all turn their heads to look at him—how could they have missed someone so important they were approached by the herald as soon as he walked through the door? Their shock becomes great when they take a closer look and realise that this person is a complete unknown.

“I will attend,” Harry says with his head raised high. He is met with grand smiles from everyone he sees, and it feels a bit like coming home. The crowd that watched the invitation extension view his confident response as a sure sign of his absolute importance—and so they welcome him into their conversations with open arms. Harry is pleased by their easy acceptance. Part of him—a frighteningly growing part of him—feels so _comfortable_ here, with these people—these smiling, happy people—who all love the same magic he loves, who all care for the same cares, who all strive toward the same vision for the future, where the powerful stand on top and they have the weak beneath them.

But Harry isn’t completely positive he agrees with all of those details, especially in determining who is weak and who is powerful. Obviously, he is powerful—the Dark Lord is powerful—but Voldemort shouldn’t be allowed to rule because Voldemort isn’t completely sane and his methods require far too much violence—but the people who don’t assimilate well into society, who just don’t fit right—like the Squibs—do they really belong here?

Harry is guided through the crowded hall by Mr and Mrs Avery, where introductions are made, and then he is released to spend time with his friends. Harry heads over to Severus, and smiles broadly at him.

“How are you doing?” Harry asks.

Severus smiles. “I’m fine.” 

“Have you been invited yet?”

“Yes,” Severus says, “but I can’t believe you were invited as soon as you stepped through the door! Do you even know what that indicates?”

Harry hesitates before saying, “Likely that I’m important?”

Severus laughs. “More like you’re the most important guest here,” Severus says with a bright smile.

“Alas! The most promising recruit!” Avery says, appearing from nowhere. “You’ve decided to gift us with your presence!”

“Hey, Alan,” Harry says. “Sorry, but your parents have gone insane introducing me to everyone.”

“I’d apologise, but that would be dishonest. I’d rather you than me,” Avery says.

“How long does this Gala usually last?” Harry asks.

Severus laughs loudly. “You just want to get to the good part!” he says.

“It ends when it ends,” Avery says dismally. “There’s no set end time.”

“You’re joking,” Harry says. “That’s awful! And no, Sev, that’s not why I asked!”

Severus looks at Harry with obvious disbelief. “Sure, and I slept with your mom.”

Harry chokes on his drink because he’s honestly not sure if Severus has ever actually had sex with Lily Evans and if he has, then this is probably the funniest thing he has ever heard.

“Good one,” Harry says after he regains his breath. Avery snorts and then wanders off.

The two friends end up wandering to an isolated balcony that overlooks the grounds. The summer evening is almost cool, such that a breeze sends a chill down their spines, so they stand close together next to the railing.

“You know what?” Severus says after a moment or two of observing the darkening horizon.

“Yeah?”

“You’re probably my best friend,” Severus says, “and I’m really happy you want this as much as I do. I’m close to Avery—but I feel like you can really understand where I’m coming from.”

“How so?”

“Well—I can help but notice that you’ve been conflicted about this choice,” Severus says as they move to a more quiet corner of the balcony. 

Harry nods and signals for Severus to continue. Severus cautiously casts _muffliato_ before continuing.

“Brilliant spell,” Harry comments. Severus smiles at him as he puts his wand away.

“And I’d have to say that I felt the same way. Before you came, I didn’t really understand the point of Dark Magic, and so I never really understood why people were so passionate about fighting for it. I’ve always been able to cast it, just fine, and it’s been easier than more school magic, and I was always against its censorship, but these past few months, watching you learn and grow and _flourish_ in Dark Magic, seeing how _natural_ it is for you, how it’s practically instinctual for you is completely amazing.”

“I’m sorry I can’t help you feel like that—”

“No, I don’t think I’m supposed to. I think there’s only a few people that are born every once in a while that are able to connect to magic on a level like you—and just comparing it to when we first met, you are so much more _whole_ and _alive_ with Dark Magic than you were before, and the way you constantly use it is absolutely incredible.”

“What? I don’t constantly use it! I only use it when I’m practicing spells—”

“No, that’s the beauty of it—you cast everything nonverbally, right?” Severus asks.

Harry nods.

“You’re nonverbally using Dark Magic _constantly_ ,” Severus says. “And the only other person I know who does that is the Dark Lord.”

“I can’t—that’s not really possible—magic is magic. It’s not split up into halves and designations. It just _is_ ,” Harry argues.

“I mean, _you_ see it that way, but no one else does. Everyone else—their nonverbal casting is all about mental incantation and wand movement. You’re the only one who truly omits both the incantation and the movement from your spells—you go straight into magic and you make it do what you want it to do. If that’s not Dark Magic then nothing is,” Severus says.

“Plenty of people can do nonverbal magic like I can,” Harry says, turning to face Severus directly. “It just takes practice—”

“It doesn’t. Alan and I have talked to _so many people_ about this—asking them how they perform nonverbal magic and it’s all the same—mental incantation at the minimum is required.”

“I don’t think people realise they do it,” Harry says. “It’s not _hard_! It can’t just be me—I’m not abnormal—”

“No, Harry, you’re _not_ abnormal. You’re incredible. And that’s why we all love you. Because you teach us all how to use magic and connect to it in a way that we never have before. The _only other person_ who does this is the Dark Lord,” Severus says, moving close to Harry and entwining their fingers together.. “You know this. That’s why you’re here. Because you need someone to teach you and our Lord can do that.”

Harry looks into Severus’s eyes and see his passion and firm conviction. Harry tries to take a step back, afraid of what he sees there, but Severus follows him until he is pressed up against the outside stone wall.“But how does that affect _you_? You said you never really understood the point of Dark Magic before,” Harry says.

“But now I do. Dark Magic brings people like you home. We need to fight to protect this. You needed this—you were _broken_ before, Harry—don’t make that face, you know it’s true. You were _stilted_ and you looked like you were only halfway in your own flesh before you started to seriously study the dark arts. You started to use Dark Magic every day—and in your nonverbal magic as well, and then rapidly—all of a sudden—you were resurrected. You were _alive_ again and it was so beautiful to watch, Harry—you are so _incredible_ and I have no idea what happened to you that make you so broken, but I promise that I won’t let that happen to you again. You have a family now—you have a home and a whole community of people who are in awe of your connection to the magic we all cherish and we will care for you. And I will care for you,” Severus says fervently.

Harry looks at Severus with a mixture of horror and awe.

 _—the scar is gone_. Severus has noticed the horcrux taking over, Harry realises with shock. But—Severus said nothing at all. But now Harry feels so much more alive, so really he is grateful. He no longer feels weighed down with unnecessary emotions, like guilt. He feels so much more vibrant since the scar vanished—so powerful and full of the intoxicating _rush_ after _rush_ after _rush_.

“Do you mean that?” Harry says. “Do you really mean that I was... dead before?”

Severus nods. “Yes,” he says, “you were. I don’t know how else to describe it. Like a mannequin—but now you’re the real thing. And I know you still feel conflicted, and I think it’s because you’re so scared of being broken again, but I promise you—no one here will break you. You are going to be treasured and the Dark Lord will take care of you, and I will take care of you.”

“I would like that,” Harry says faintly— _wait_ , _stop this_ —and then Severus is bringing a hand up to touch Harry’s cheek.

“I would desperately like to kiss you,” Severus is saying.

“Wait—” Harry is protesting but then he is kissing Severus Snape—Severus Snape, his future potions professor and suddenly it all makes sense: this is why he was treated with such disdain throughout his whole childhood. Severus Snape hates him because Harry is going to break his heart, but Harry doesn’t _really_ want to break his heart because Severus Snape is actually _really nice_ but he’s his _teacher_ —oh, _God_ , he is a magnificent kisser. But _wait he doesn’t even_ like _Severus that way._

But Harry is pressing back against Severus—and somewhere in the back of his mind something is saying goodbye his memories of his old potions professor, because that’s not who this person is, that’s not who his best friend is, that’s not the person he is kissing; and that same something is saying goodbye to his memories of Harry Potter because that’s not who he is, that’s not who is kissing his best friend; he is Harry Smith—and Severus is pressing back and Severus is moving his hand from off of Harry’s face to run up and down Harry’s spine and is settling on his waist and is pressing Harry closer and closer and closer—but there’s still too much space—Harry is still too far away but they can’t get any closer than they already are and there’s no way they’re going to undress on this balcony at the Summer Gala despite how much they want to because they have some dignity but despite this they’re still _too far away_ —but eventually they stop and then Severus Snape and Harry Smith are composing themselves, making sure they look presentable. And then Severus is pressing one last kiss to Harry’s lips and Harry is smiling, but somewhere in the back of his mind, something is saying, _oh, God, what the fuck_.

“Thank you,” Harry Smith is saying. “If it weren’t for you, I’d still be broken.”

And Severus Snape is smiling. “Anytime.”

They return to the party without anyone noticing their absence. They talk and eat until finally—around 1 AM, the last guest that is not invited to the afterparty leaves, and suddenly the tone of the space becomes solemn and serious, a sharp contrast from the cheerful frivolity of only a few seconds before.

The thin man from before—the herald—walks up to the group of them remaining—there’s about eighteen invited—and presents each one of them a card that has their name on it.

“Tonight will be different than any other Initiation ceremony. You will be called individually or in small groups, or in large groups. Hold onto your card at all times. You may be sent at any—”

And suddenly four of the eighteen vanished; their cards obviously haven been activated.

“—time. All will be called, so don’t worry about any waits. Have a pleasant evening, my friends,” the herald says and then walks away to promptly disappear in the shadows.

Harry looks at his card. The only thing printed on the card is his name: Harry Smith. Harry feels a sense of pleasure in that his card shows who he really is—Smith. He’s _Smith_. He’s accepted that now. He’s never going to be Harry Potter again, and if he ever does return to 1997, why on earth would he want to spend time with people twenty years younger than him? He certainly won’t want to spend time with school kids. And he’ll have better things to worry about—and hopefully, he can take Voldemort down so his friends don’t have to be involved after 1997. And then maybe he can see about being friends with them, after they’ve graduated. He’ll have been graduated for twenty years at that point. He’ll be in his thirties when they’re still teenagers. How awful. And realistically, the future he knew is unlikely to ever happen. The history books have no mention of any Harry Smith, so obviously he is changing the future completely so his friends won’t even be the same people they were when he knew them. They might never even be born.

And something—somewhere, in the back of his mind—is trying to say something? What is it? It doesn’t matter. Never mind.

Harry Smith smiles with ease as he looks around the room at the fourteen people remaining. He doesn’t know who was included in the first batch, but he recognises a few faces from Hogwarts. Severus and Avery stand next to him, and there’s a cluster of Ravenclaws in the opposite corner. A few other Hufflepuffs that Harry should _probably_ greet but likely won’t are chatting amiably with a collection of recently graduated students—the previous 7th years.

Avery is fidgeting next to Harry.

“Stop,” Harry lays a hand on Avery’s shoulder. “Why are you so nervous?”

“Because this is terrifying!” Avery says quietly.

Harry looks at Avery as if this thought never occurred to him. In fact, it hadn’t. Harry has felt many emotions about this night, but fear is not one of them.

“You’ll be fine,” Harry says as the cluster of Ravenclaws vanish with a surprised squeal. “Trust me.”

Avery takes a few deep breaths and then nods his head. “Okay, you’re right.”

“You know far more about the politics than I do, and you are competent at Dark Magic. You’ll do excellently,” Harry runs a confident hand through his hair.

“It’s true,” Severus agrees. “You’ll be fine.”

The next group vanishes ten minutes later and it is all of the Hufflepuffs, gone—excluding Harry

“I’m not sure whether or not to be extremely offended or very pleased that I wasn’t included in that group,” Harry says with a wry smile.

“Probably both,” Severus says. “This waiting is killing me.”

“No one ever said anything about _waiting_ ,” Avery moans. “I thought it would be like bam! Everyone all together! That’s what my dad said it was supposed to be like but I guess they decided to switch things up a bit. I wonder why.”

Harry shrugs. “You’re asking the wrong person.”

“Now the real question is,” Severus says. “if being called first is the honour, or being called last is.”

“Well, seeing as we’re slowly inching toward the last, I would hope the last person is the best,” Avery says.

There’s only a few people left when Avery and Snape disappear, leaving Harry almost alone.. A few minutes later, the last person is called and Harry Smith is left alone in the empty hall.

It has been quite some time, and Harry takes a few deep breaths to get rid of his anxiety.

He reminds himself of why he is doing this. So that when he returns to his time, he can be the best spy possible. So that he can learn as much about magic as he possibly can. So that he can become the best dark wizard he possibly can be. So that he can use his power to advance the agenda of the powerful and ignore that of the weak. So that he can prove himself worthy of his magic. Worthy of his Dark Magic. Worthy of the Dark Mark. Worth of his Lord’s attention and favour.

He is vibrating with excitement when it happens and he is gone.

He arrives gracefully in—an office. A completely ordinary office. There are two chairs, one behind the desk and one in front of the desk. The room is empty. Harry doesn’t know what to do, so he remains standing still. He will demonstrate his obedience to his Lord. He will not pry into matters that are not his own. His Lord deserves his secrets.

He doesn’t wait long until the door opens and in steps the Dark Lord Voldemort.

A peace that is indescribable overcomes Harry Smith and he has never felt more comfortable. He instantly knows that he can never act against this man in his presence. He will do anything to please him—just to keep this peace, this comfort inside of his soul.

Harry immediately bows. “My Lord,” he says.

The Dark Lord appears as an older version of the diary Tom Riddle. He is handsome. He takes his seat behind the desk and gestures to the chair in front. “Please, sit.”

Harry takes the chair and respectively waits for his Lord to address him.

The Dark Lord does not mind waiting, but neither does Harry Smith. So they simply look at each other. Harry instantly and fully believes after even a split second’s glance that the Dark Lord looks powerful, commanding, and completely deserving of his title.

Their stare is not challenging nor threatening, but is merely observational. An assessment of reaction.

Harry Smith is perfectly happy to sit in his Lord’s presence all day long, and it seems that the Dark Lord might be inclined to do the same.

But the silence eventually breaks. “Harry Smith,” the Dark Lord Voldemort says. His voice is deep and powerful, warm and kind.

Harry nods his head slightly. “Yes, my Lord,” he says.

“I have heard many things about you,” the Dark Lord says, “and I find myself wanting these things to be true.”

“Ask, and I shall give it to you,” Harry says without any hesitation, with perfect confidence that he could, in fact, accomplish any task.

The Dark Lord smiles for the first time. “You are curious, Harry Smith,” he says. “I have no doubt you are a prodigy at Dark Magic. And I have no doubt that my friends told me the truth when they claim you use Dark Magic instinctively.”

“Please tell me your doubts, that I may assuage them,” Harry says. He feels a strong need to speak formally, and he finds himself using words he ordinarily would never use.

“You are eager to please,” the Dark Lord says. “I didn’t expect that, to be honest.”

“Neither did I,” Harry says honestly. “But I feel such peace in your presence that I find myself eager to accommodate your desires that I might remain in your presence a bit longer.”

“Is this true?” the Dark Lord says curiously.

“It is. As soon as you stepped through the door, I found myself immediately ready to do whatever you wanted so you might stay with me longer.”

“Describe it,” the Dark Lord says. “Describe this peace.”

“Like I am whole,” Harry says immediately. “If I may, my friend said that when we first met I seemed broken. But through my constant usage of the Dark Arts, I seemed to heal and became whole. But I find myself disagreeing, because now—in your company—I truly feel complete.”

The Dark Lord leans back in his chair. “If I may be so bold,” he says, “have you created a horcrux? I ask because the healing power of Dark Magic is a phenomenon known to all who have split their souls—the Dark Magic soothes the broken edges of the soul.”

Harry shakes his head. “I have not. But I do carry one inside of me.”

 _Fuck me_ —a part of Harry that he had forgotten about _screams_ because that was not the plan that was not the plan that was _not the plan_ —but the part in control ignores the inner panic and remains completely subservient to the Dark Lord. This is his duty. He will obey his Lord.

The Dark Lord raises both of his eyebrows in obvious disbelief. “You are a host for a horcrux?”

Harry nods. “I believe it was an accident. As a child, I was struck by the killing curse but something about the cast was incorrect, and so it backfired. As the only living thing around, a fragment of the soul attached itself to me. I lived in separation from the soul piece until I began casting Dark Magic in earnest, in which I believe it sought to merge with the rest of my soul.”

The Dark Lord is now leaning forward in his chair starting at Harry with such fascination that it’s unnerving. “That’s incredible,” he says. “The curse—they must not have truly meant it for it to backfire. Strange circumstances, for certain, but the fact that a horcrux actually was kept separate from your main soul for so long until only a few months ago is also incredible. Have you noticed personality changes?”

“Yes,” Harry says. “I find myself caring less for others, which had been tiresome, and less prone to useless emotions such as guilt and grief. All in all, I do not find the loss detrimental to my well-being. My friends say it is an improvement.”

“Incredible,” the Dark Lord repeats with a smile. “And your powers—have they increased?”

“If so, a negligible amount,” Harry says. “However, I did grow three inches.”

The Dark Lord laughs in delight. “Oh, how fortuitous. Do you know the identity of the soul that is inside you?”

Harry nods.

“And will you seek to resurrect them? To relieve them from the state the backfired curse left them in?” the Dark Lord asks.

“No,” Harry says. Why would he? The Dark Lord is sitting across from him. He needs no resurrection. “Though I would if it proved necessary,” he adds with absolute certainty.

“They are still alive?” the Dark Lord asks. His mood is quickly turning stormy and Harry can easily see that the Dark Lord is deciding whether or not to hunt down this unknown individual. Harry restrains a laugh with ease—if _he_ was the Dark Lord, he too would be frightened. “Do I know them?”

“You do,” Harry confirms. “But I would not worry. The person who created the horcrux within me does not exist in this time.”

The heat vanishes from the Dark Lord’s gaze and is replaced with what looks like curiosity, fear, and a minuscule measure of amazement, before his mouth twitches upward.

“May I cast a spell on you? It shall not harm you,” the Dark Lord asks.

Harry nods his head in permission.

The Dark Lord points his wand at Harry, says nothing, and does not move his wand. He points and casts, and then Harry finds himself surrounded in a strange mixture of colour—an azure blue and a deep red that are individually beautiful and strong and appear to be fighting for dominance.

The Dark Lord looks both completely flabbergasted—an expression Harry Smith was not expecting to see on his face—and unsurprised before he regains his composure.

“You are correct. I need not worry,” the Dark Lord says. “This spell shows the colour of the soul. For example,” the Dark Lord performs the same spell but with the wand pointed at himself. The dark red surrounds the Dark Lord—the same colour found in Harry’s tangled mess. “But you appear to have not only two souls fighting for dominance, but I can only presume that the horcrux you speak of is one of my own. Because that is _my_ soul. No two souls are the same.”

Harry nods. “Your deduction would be correct.”

The Dark Lord stares at Harry Smith for several seconds. “Dimension or time-travel?”

“Time-travel,” Harry says. The Dark Lord nods in confirmation as if this makes everything okay. And, unsurprisingly, the Dark Lord is smart enough to realise that this mistake will never be _his_ issue—this will be an action he makes in the future. The Dark Lord sits in wonder for several seconds.

“How was the noodling experience?” the Dark Lord asks, honestly curious. “No one ever actually explains how it feels, just that it is a noodling. What does that even mean? And was it a sweet potato noodling or a cucumber noodling?”

“A zucchini noodling,” Harry says. He is surprised by how many times he has had this conversation. “And I can’t really describe it better than noodling—it’s really the only way _to_ explain it, I’m afraid.”

“ _Zucchini_? Accidental time-travel?” the Dark Lord says. “Well, you obviously came from the future, since I have not tried to kill any children recently.”

“I did,” Harry says. “I will not tell you when, exactly, unless you ask, since I find myself powerless to resist at this moment. But I think that we should probably not reveal too much about the future.”

“Answer me this: do I need resurrection in your time?” the Dark Lord asks.

“No,” Harry says, remembering the power the Dark Lord presented when they last met. “You were strong, and powerful.”

The Dark Lord smiles. “Excellent,” he says. “You are a faithful servant.”

Harry smiles at his Lord, and decides to _never_ tell him that he was his enemy in the future. His Lord will never have to learn about his foolishness, his simple ignorance. He simply did what he was told by people. Before he learned for himself—before he found a home and a family and actually realised how _good_ it felt to be in the Dark Lord’s presence. He doesn’t know why it was so painful before—probably because he was resisting the urge to go where he belonged, which was foolish and just led him to pain and suffering. But now he’s home, with his Lord, and he is safe and comfortable and he feels so powerful and he knows that he will never disappoint the Dark Lord on purpose.

“You will be a good apprentice,” the Dark Lord says. “I will teach you to use your magic.”

“I am honoured, my Lord,” Harry says. “Thank you. I will make you proud.”

“I already am,” the Dark Lord says. “You have returned home, even when it was easier to stay away since you were thrown out of your time and into unfamiliar territory. But you are here now. I am glad you decided to use Dark Magic. Were you cautioned away from it before?”

Harry was, in fact. “I was told it would corrupt me,” Harry says.

“They were clearly incorrect,” the Dark Lord says. “It has healed you. We were obviously not together—was I only recently resurrected? Were you not in my presence?”

“Yes, you were. And no, I was in school,” Harry says. “Dark Magic was forbidden.”

“It does not change, then,” the Dark Lord says to himself. “And were you unaware of your two souls?”

“Yes,” Harry says. “I was unaware until only recently.”

“And because of this—I do not tell you in the future, leaving you in ignorance. Were you in pain?”

“Yes,” Harry says. “When you felt emotions strongly, primarily.”

“It is a shame,” the Dark Lord says, “that you had to live like that. I will attempt to remedy this in the future, so you might not grow up in pain.”

“Thank you,” Harry says.

“Of course—this might not affect _you_ in any shape or form, you do realise?” the Dark Lord says. “My awareness of your situation does not mean that you will cease to exist? In all likelihood, everything I try to do to ease your pain will undoubtedly lead to causing it to occur, and nothing I do now will end up preventing your past and my future.”

“It certainly seems dismal when you phrase it like that,” Harry says. “But perhaps I have both travelled in time and into a new dimension—and so we do not know what the future holds anymore.”

“Perhaps,” the Dark Lord says. They both know this is not true, but it is a nice idea.

“We cannot be sure if the experience of dimensional time-travel is any different from regular time-travel,” Harry says. “Unless there is a fourth noodling sensation I have not heard about.”

“There is not. There is only the three.”

“Then—I will use my knowledge of the future to aid you in your tasks, but we cannot rely on it to be true,” Harry says. “I will aid you however I can, my Lord.”

The Dark Lord nods in acknowledgement. “With regard to your souls, I believe the only way to resolve this is to try and combine the two souls,” the Dark Lord says. “The horcrux, unfortunately, will be lost. But they are too entangled for an extraction. I think your issue with being in my presence results from the fact that half of your soul recognises its other pieces. You have talent, and I do not need another slave as an apprentice.”

“How would we combine the two souls?” Harry asks.

“I have no idea,” the Dark Lord says as though this is an everyday confession. “But we can probably find out. Let’s go to my library. I have numerous books on souls. I have no doubt that some fool made a mistake in an ancient tomb and accidentally ended up with multiple souls. Or leftover souls from conjoined twins—that sort of thing. Follow me, Harry.”

Harry stands to follow the Dark Lord as he strides from the room.

“As you are my apprentice, and carry a part of my soul, you may call me Otec if you tire of saying my Lord,” the Dark Lord says. “It is Slovak for father, which I suppose I am, considering you carry part of my soul. First lesson: Slovak is the primary language for Dark Magic, which surprises almost everyone—so you might as well get used to its pronunciation patterns as quickly as possible.”

Harry can’t help but be full of joy when he hears this—he has permission to call the Dark Lord _Otec_. The comforting presence of the Dark Lord swells in his heart and he happily follows the Dark Lord—his Otec—into the library. He is given a stack of books and is told to search them for any mention of a double soul.

He is able to rifle through the indexes fairly quickly, so only thirty minutes later, Harry finds his first reference. “My Lord, I’ve found one,” he says before reading aloud. “ _A double soul typically results in battles for dominance and control. To stop this, the two souls must be melded and formed into a new one_.”

The Dark Lord leans over from where he was browsing and examines the text. “It appears you have,” he says calmly before reading the spine. “Herpo the Foul? Excellent. This is reliable.” He takes the book from Harry’s hands.

“ _The creation of a new soul requires eight sacrifices over the course of eight nights. The first is the sacrifice of choice. The second is the sacrifice of sight. The third is smell. The fourth, hearing. The fifth: taste and touch. Sixth: movement. The seventh: body. The eighth and final sacrifice is of soul. Seven innocent individuals are required_...” the Dark Lord trails off before continuing after skipping ahead.

“ _The sacrifice of choice requires the individual for whom the soul is to be created to be under the_ Imperius _curse for the entire duration of the ritual._

 _“The_ imperiused _individual will then remove the sight, smell, sound, taste and touch, of five of the innocent individuals over the next four nights. On the sixth night, the spinal cord must be removed from the sixth innocent without them dying, or else the ritual needs to be restarted. The seventh night requires the seventh innocent to have their soul be consumed by a Dementor controlled by the_ imperiused _individual._

 _“On the eighth and final night, all seven innocents, which should all still be alive, must be killed, where upon their blood must be mixed into a potion wherein the_ imperiused _individual must submerge themselves for three minutes and thirty seconds. After, the potion will then be solidified, and shrunk. The_ imperiused _individual will be released from the_ Imperius _curse and consume the shrunken and solidified potion. The new soul will be created afterwards_.”

“Oh, that sounds simple,” Harry says blithely, trying to understand how exactly those random steps somehow ended up creating a new soul.

“It does, doesn’t it?” the Dark Lord smiles, not recognising the sarcasm. “I will gather your innocents. We will begin immediately. You need not be in pain anymore.”

Harry looks at his Lord—his Otec —and smiles at him. “Thank you, Otec” he says.

The Dark Lord looks at Harry with a small smile. “Of course, my soul.”

“I am worried about the _Imperius_ curse, though,” Harry says. “What am I supposed to do during the times we aren’t working on the ritual?”

“I will perform the _Imperius_. And I will teach you, during the daytime,” the Dark Lord says. “Do not worry.”

“Go home and sleep. Return tomorrow around noon with a bag packed for a week. You will be spending it with me,” the Dark Lord says. “We will reassess your living situations after your soul has been fixed.”

“Thank you,” Harry says. He bows low, and departs. As soon as he leaves the Dark Lord’s presence, he feels a gaping hole in his chest that he never knew he had before. How could he have been so blind before?

No one is awake when Harry arrives at the Avery home, so he goes upstairs and falls into his bed.

Away from the Dark Lord, he can think more clearly.

 _What the fuck just happened_. He didn’t even recognise himself when he was in the same room with the Dark Lord. He became so utterly dependent on the Dark Lord Voldemort because of this horcrux inside of him. And now they were going to do some ritual to fix it? And wasn’t that terrifying—his soul was going to change entirely. It was going to _merge_ with the _Dark Lord’s_. Would he even be the same? Would he even survive? Would he remember 1997? Would he remember Hermione and Ron and Neville and Luna? Would he remember Remus and Tonks? Would he even have the same goals?

But does he even have those goals now? Honestly, if Harry is honest with himself—because it is time to stop lying to himself, he needs to stop lying to himself—Harry’s not so sure he does.

Does he support the vilification of Dark Magic? Honestly—he doesn’t. Harry likes Dark Magic. It’s horrifying, but it’s also exhilarating. It’s certainly effective in combat, which he will likely participate in. He does not want to fight for a cause that will try to eradicate it. He _cannot_ fight for that cause.

Does he support the deaths of thousands of Muggles and hundreds of Muggleborns? Honestly—he doesn’t. He can’t think of any reason why Muggleborns should be prohibited from learning magic. He doesn’t understand why people think Muggleborns should be treated as a lesser caste—wait, that’s a lie. Harry clenches his fist. _I must not tell lies._ He understands their reasoning, but he doesn’t think it’s _valid_ in any way, shape, or form. But why does advancement of Muggleborns have to end up hand in hand with the eradicate Dark Magic? They’re separate concepts. They should be mutually exclusive. But somehow they’ve become intertwined and now Muggleborns are willing to die to banish Dark Magic and say it’s so they can become equals in society, but—that’s a different problem.

And as for the Muggles? Death is necessary, of course, but—but this is too much. There’s too much death, and they don’t even know what they’re dying for. If they did, if they could make a choice, then maybe— _maybe_ —it would be acceptable.

Does he support the exile of Squibs? Honestly—he’s not sure about this. He thinks that it would be hard to be a Squib. To live constantly in the magical world but not be able to access magic. To know that you _should_ be able to, but you _can’t_. In the Muggle world, they could at least fit in, and have fulfilling lives where they are surrounded by people and are able to do whatever they want to do. But they wouldn’t know anything about the Muggle world, if they were raised in the Wizarding one. They would be a fish out of water. So would they be happier if they left? Maybe, Harry’s not sure. They could be happier without the constant reminder of what they aren’t, and what they never can become. But should people force Squibs to leave? He can’t support that.

He doesn’t want segregation. He doesn’t want exclusion. He doesn’t want censorship. He wants everyone to be able to do anything that they choose to do, whether that be Dark Magic or Light Magic or no magic at all. He wants people to be able to have _choices_ , even if those choices are hard. He wants people to be able to discover that they are actually _really good_ at certain types of magic. He wants them to feel good about themselves.

Does he support the release of prisoners who were incarcerated for using Dark Magic? Honestly, he think this depends on the case. He thinks violent crimes should still be prohibited. Use Dark Magic, but don’t use it to kill. Use Dark Magic, but use it on criminals, or would-be criminals. Use Dark Magic, but on homeless people, or old people that won’t be missed. Use Dark Magic, and cover your tracks. Use Dark Magic, but not in the open. Use Dark Magic, and kill Muggles, not witches and wizards. Use Dark Magic, but regulate it, protect it, manage it. Make sure the fire doesn’t burn uncontrolled.

Harry rubs his forehead. _The scar is gone_. He feels so confused. He doesn’t know what’s going on. And Harry is afraid of what he’ll be like when this week is over.

His soul will be _merged_ with the Dark Lord’s horcrux. What does that even mean?

But maybe it explains how Harry can live at the same time as his original self. His soul is about to change—and so he doesn’thave to worry about what would have happened when he is born soon. Could someone’s soul even exist twice in one time? Obviously, they could—like with time turners, but what about _long term_? Like 16 years of existence?

But it doesn’t matter anymore—he’ll be a new soul. He’ll be a new person. Harry Potter really will be gone forever. He’ll truly become Harry Smith, in every way. Mind and soul.

Yet it still nags at Harry— _who is he in the future_? _Why wasn’t he around_?

And, even more terrifying—is Harry even alive, then? Or if he is alive, is Harry fighting against the Light? Against his friends? Against Hermione and Ron and Neville and Luna and Remus and Tonks and Dumbledore?

Harry doesn’t know what’s going to happen to him. But he does know that nothing will ever be the same after this week is over.

Harry closes his eyes. He is exhausted, frightened, apprehensive, but despite all of these emotions, Harry falls asleep immediately after getting underneath the covers.

He wakes the next morning and heads downstairs for breakfast when he runs into Avery and Severus, who both let out shouts when they see him.

“You’re alive! When did you get back?” Avery says. “We waited up for hours!”

“It wasn’t hours,” Severus corrects, spinning in his chair. He smiles fondly at Harry— _oh, God, I have to deal with that_ —“What happened?”

“It felt like hours!” Avery says. “Tell us everything!”

Harry looks at the two with mild amusement, easily pressing that uncharacteristic panic to the place where that thing that sometimes speaks goes. “Good morning,” he says. “I met with the Dark Lord.”

“Yes, but _when_? And _how_?” Avery says. “You never arrived in the Grand Assembly.”

“What Grand Assembly?” Harry asks.

“It’s the initiation ceremony,” Severus says, “where we are marked in front of all the ranks.” Severus pulls up his sleeve and Harry sees the Dark Mark on his pale forearm.

Oh, yes. The Dark Mark. Harry had forgotten.

“We were summoned in groups so that we could be introduced by our mentors,” Avery says. “Severus and I showed up alone—a great honour! My parents introduced us. They were expecting you to come next, but you never arrived. They were so shocked. They thought you had been rejected, and that they were going to be publicly punished for bringing someone inadequate. And they were embarrassed, since everyone there _knew_ about you from the Gala, but you never arrived to the Grand Assembly. Many thought you were dead.”

“Oh,” Harry says.

“But you say you met with the Dark Lord?” Avery says.

“Yes,” Harry says. “I did. I guess it was after the Grand Assembly. It was one-on-one.”

Severus restrains his shock. “One-on-one? With the Dark Lord? Harry, are you okay? What happened?”

“I’m sorry for worrying you,” Harry says, “but I’m totally fine.” Harry starts to smile with one corner of his mouth. “It went really well, actually. I’m the Dark Lord’s apprentice.”

As Harry says this, a shriek of delight comes from the doorway and Avery’s parents come rushing in and they embrace Harry who gasps for air because of their tight grips.

“We knew you’d be his apprentice!” Mrs Avery says. “We knew it!”

“I’m proud of you,” Mr Avery says.

“Where did you come from?” Alan asks.

“We were listening the whole time,” Mrs Avery says. “We charmed Harry’s door so we would know when he woke up and then followed you, Harry,”

“That’s not creepy at all,” Alan says.

“It’s fine,” Harry says with a soft smile. “Thank you for caring about me.”

Mrs Avery kisses Harry on the cheek and exits with her husband, leaving the three boys alone.

“So you’re his apprentice now?” Severus says as soon as Harry takes a bite of food.

Harry nods. He chews for a few seconds before swallowing. “That’s why I came home so late last night. We were researching—oh! And I have to go back at noon. I’ll be staying there for a week; we’re doing a ritual,” Harry says.

“Already?” Severus says. “Which ritual?”

“I can’t say,” Harry says. “But it’s a week long. It’s nothing bad.”

 _Nothing bad_? A small (but very loud) part of Harry disagrees with this assessment, but the rest thinks over the instructions and can’t find it in himself to take offense at any of them. Yes, people will die, but he will stop being so pathetic around the Dark Lord, so is it not worth it?

“You better pack,” Avery says. “You slept in. It’s almost noon.”

“Thanks,” Harry says. “See you in a week, then.”

Avery flaps a hand in a half-hearted good-bye. His sleeve slips, and Harry can see the tip of the Dark Mark peeking out from the fabric.

“I’ll help you pack,” Severus says, and follows Harry out of the room. “I want to see your mark,” Severus says once they are safely in Harry’s bedroom.

“I don’t have one,” Harry says.

Severus looks horrified. “You don’t have one? But you’re his apprentice!”

“I know,” Harry says. “I’m not sure why. But he never even mentioned it, and I figured if he wanted to give me the mark, he would do so.”

Severus looks at Harry carefully. “Be careful, Harry. I worry for you.”

“I know,” Harry says. He looks up from his spellwork to meet Severus’s eyes. “I appreciate it. I imagine after this ritual, he will give me the mark.”

“You think he is testing you?” Severus asks.

Harry nods. “If I fail, then I’m not worthy of being his apprentice,” Harry says. “I won’t be worthy of his mark.”

Severus walks over to grab Harry by the shoulders. “You _are_ worthy,” he says fiercely. “If I was found worthy, then you are more than worthy. If you cannot last as his apprentice, you can last as a Death Eater.”

“When did you get so good at pep talks?” Harry asks, lifting Severus’s hands off his shoulders to hold them in his own. Harry pushes down the part of himself that is trying to rip his hands away.

“You seem to need a lot of them,” Severus says. “So I rose to the occasion.” 

“Thank you,” Harry says. “It means a lot to me, that you think so well of me.”

“How could I not?” Severus says, and then kisses Harry slowly while their hands are still entangled. Harry hesitates—he doesn’t want to lead Severus on, but this _feels_ good—there’s no hope for their future; Harry can never be with a half-blood—and then there’s a panicking sensation in the back of Harry’s mind that is on the verge of giving him a migraine and so Harry smashes it down with force until at last there is _silence_. Deciding he doesn’t care if Severus is upset later, Harry kisses Severus back, using his hands to pull Severus off balance so that Severus falls forward onto Harry’s bed.

Harry slides up toward the headboard and Severus crawls over him and they continue to kiss, every kiss seeming to speak a thousand words—hope for the future, for the moment, for their cause; of joy for their friendship, for their newfound master, for each other’s success; of fear for their safety, for their sanity, for their lives; of sorrow for their innocence long since lost, for their childhood forgotten, for their memories of a simpler time.

Harry feels like he could kiss Severus for hours longer—Harry cannot _wait_ for the moment when he will shatter this man’s heart—but the clock is nearing twelve, and he needs to leave, so he turns his head away from Severus, breaking their kiss. Severus continues to kiss Harry’s face and neck and hair.

“I have to go,” Harry says quietly, as if he is mourning the loss.

“I know,” Severus says and he sits up, allowing Harry to do the same. “But I don’t want you to, not now—not after I’ve finally found the courage to tell you I like you.”

“It’s just a week,” Harry says.

Severus shakes his head as Harry closes his bag.

“We both know it’s not just a week,” he says. “You’ll stay past that time, and I won’t see you until school starts back up. And by then, you will no longer care for me like you do now.”

“You don’t know that,” Harry says desperately—if Severus already thinks this won’t work, then the end result won’t be as sweet.

“I will always want you,” Severus says. “But the Dark Lord is persuasive, and—”

“And what?” Harry says after Severus stops mid-sentence.

“And no one has ever turned him down. You’re his apprentice, and you will be spending a lot of time with him, and so, it is only natural that he will take you to his bed and—”

Harry Smith still has enough Harry Potter inside of him to immediately and fervently and decisively say, “Absolutely not.”

And as soon as the words exit his mouth, Harry is pleasantly surprised when he feels this ring true throughout every part of him—even the horcrux. That’s a relief, Harry realises, that he had not anticipated needing.

“You can’t say that! He will want you, Harry,” Severus says, “because you are wonderful.”

“He won’t,” Harry says. “I promise you, my relationship with our Lord is _not_ sexual, and it will never be that way. I swear. Trust me, please.”

Severus looks at Harry carefully and sees the conviction in his eyes. He nods his head. “Okay,” he says, “I trust you. I will be waiting for your return.”

“And I will be waiting to return,” Harry says painfully. This is a mistake, a part of Harry says. He doesn’t want to be in a relationship, he doesn’t want to break anyone’s heart, he doesn’t want to have to care about someone else. He _doesn’t_ care about anyone else. Mentally torn, he squeezes Severus’s hand once and then presses a quick kiss to his lips.

“Until then,” Harry says, and he walks out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (see also hex colors #2899EF and #752619 for an example of what they see in the soul spell)


	5. The Ritual

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be advised this chapter contains graphic depiction of violence.

When Harry arrives, the Dark Lord appears to greet him and Harry immediately feels all of his conscious resolve drift away into a mindless swamp of _please him, stay with him, obey him_.

“Come,” the Dark Lord says.

“Yes, Otec,” Harry says, and moves to obey.

“You will help me prepare the ritual chamber,” the Dark Lord says. “It needs to be cleaned by hand without magic.”

It is Harry’s first day as the Dark Lord’s apprentice and he is cleaning a room by hand. _What world is this_? But Harry easily and readily obeys the Dark Lord— _anything to keep him close_ —and begins to clean the ritual room with the offered supplies.

And as if to prove that everything Harry ever knew was wrong, the Dark Lord gets on his hands and knees, and _helps_ _scrub the room_.

If only Harry could tell Ron and Hermione this—if only he could tell _someone_ that he saw the Dark Lord in all of his terrifying glory scrub a ritual room floor with a sponge and soapy water—then he could die a happy man.

But Harry is grateful for the help—this room appears to have not been cleaned since the last ritual as the stains on the floor are obviously from blood; the floor is littered with plain lasagne noodles, persimmons, and almonds. Harry has no idea what ritual requires these objects, and imagining anything that requires lasagne noodles somehow makes Harry feel wildly uncomfortable. Harry tries to ignore _why_ the items are present and instead focuses on how to remove them. He brings his attention back to the task at hand, cleaning the room. He is eased into a mindless drone of repetitive motion that Harry finds himself sinking into, deeper and deeper.

“We clean the ritual room ourselves,” the Dark Lord says after they are halfway done, bringing Harry’s attention back to the present, “so that it is fresh and that all remaining magic can be set free for the next users of the room.”

The first part of the room was primarily blood stains with the scattered almond here or there, but this second half is blanketed with a mix of lasagne, persimmons, and almonds. The Dark Lord rolls up his sleeves.

“Otec, I apologise for my ignorance, but what do you mean set free? Will the previous ritual affect us?” Harry asks. He doesn’t know if he wants bloody-lasagne-noodle-persimmon-almond ritual magic interacting with him.

“No,” the Dark Lord says as he uses a cloth to push together an especially large pile of smashed persimmons so he can remove it into the bin they’ve brought into the room with them. “We will be unaffected. There are remnants of magic left here, but it’s more like memories, imprints. We’re releasing those memories.”

“But aren’t those memories here because over the leftovers of the ritual?”

“You’re right—what we are cleaning now is the memories,” the Dark Lord says calmly. He doesn’t seem to be bothered by the questions, so Harry feels encouraged to continue. “They’ve certainly built up after this ritual,” he says wryly after scooping a large glob of lasagne noodles and almonds into the bin.

“So, why doesn’t the previous user clean out the ritual room after its usage to prevent the memory build-up in the first place?” Harry asks. He starts to use his rag as a sweep, corralling all of the leftovers toward the Dark Lord near the bin for easier removal.

“Then the room would be without magic,” the Dark Lord says.

“And a room without magic no longer is suitable for rituals?” Harry says but as if it were a question. He’s trying to get the stubborn bits of noodle out of the corners of the room.

“Exactly,” the Dark Lord says, accompanied by a wet _whlop_ as another handful of persimmon goo drops into the bin.

“So why don’t we use magic in here to clean it?” Harry asks. “If we want there to be magic in the room?”

“Because cleaning magic rips away the memory—cleaning it by hand forces us to acknowledge it and then allow it to move on,” the Dark Lord says.

Harry isn’t sure if he understands, because it seems like he could certainly acknowledge the mess and then _scourgify_ the whole room, but the Dark Lord’s words are so _comforting_ and Harry feels so _complete_ that really, there’s no reason to complain because it takes far longer to clean by hand and with the Dark Lord helping him, then that is far more time spent with him, far more time spent whole.

So Harry sinks into that sensation—that peaceful wholeness of self—and lets himself drift.

And drift.

And drift.

The ritual room swells after the first evening—the sacrifice of choice making the air thicker and heavier, the sacrifice making his blood pound harder in his ears. He remembers how much solemnity and trust is needed for this sacrifice. He prepares himself for a week of unconscious actions, but when the _Imperio_ is cast, Harry can hardly tell the difference.

The next day, Harry finds himself learning at the Dark Lord’s side. He learns how to move, how to gain ground, how to utilise the environment for his benefit.

“We’re not duelling,” the Dark Lord says. “There are no _rules_. You need to make sure to use advantage you can, and often what’s around you is the easiest option. There is no shame in taking the easy route in a battle.”

The second evening is the sacrifice of sight. The individual is brought into the ritual chamber where Harry and the Dark Lord had spent a few minutes preparing. There is an oak stool for the innocent, and a basin carved out of elm. Harry knows which spell to cast, having practiced it earlier that day, so when the Dark Lord instructs him to do so, he easily removes the innocent’s sight. They send the innocent away—Harry is not sure where, but he’s not sure he cares at all.

The second day, Harry finds himself learning how to walk.

“I already know how to walk,” Harry says.

“You don’t. You walk as a child walks. You need to walk as I walk, as your Otec walks,” the Dark Lord says.

Harry nods, understanding perfectly that he is inadequate in comparison to the Dark Lord.

“You need to carry yourself taller. Bring your shoulders back—you hunch in. Lift your head and stare at faces, not at feet. You are confident. Feel that confidence. You deserve to walk like this, because you are powerful.”

Harry straightens his spine and lifts his chin. He is filled with the sense that he is better than none other—that his power is immense and unstoppable, greater than no one save his Otec.

“Walk quietly, but long strides. If walking slowly, make sure you don’t swing side to side. Your centre of gravity is between your legs. You are to walk as if you _glide_. Walk to me.”

Harry walks to the Dark Lord, using muscles he had forgotten about.

“Excellent. You will always walk like this,” the Dark Lord says. “You will never forget.”

“Yes, Otec,” Harry says.

The Dark Lord offers Harry a look that Harry is unable to interpret.

“We will now work on your spell work. You must tighten your wand motions,” the Dark Lord instructs Harry. “You don’t need to use your wand all the time, but when you do, you must not let it hinder you.”

And the days proceed in this manner. Short discussion of topics that Harry finds both completely trivial (how to properly tie a Eldredge knot) to intensely valuable (regulating power in unstructured magic). But because of the _Imperius_ curse, Harry is told to memorise the information—and so he thinks that this quick acceptance of material might actually _stay_ with him after the curse is lifted.

The evenings continue to have magic that builds within the ritual chamber and the elm basin is filling with the sacrifices. Harry feels somewhat disturbed by what he is doing, but he is halfway through, and knows he cannot stop.

And then it is the seventh day and Harry feels apprehensive.

“I don’t react well to Dementors, Otec,” Harry says.

“Fear not, I know how to cast the Patronus charm. I will teach you, and we can use it tonight.”

“Will that not interfere with the ritual?”

“As long as we cast it before we enter the chamber, no.”

Harry does not want to reveal he already knows how to cast the Patronus charm for some reason—that’s _private_ —so he waits until the Dark Lord explains the concept and then is instructed to perform the spell.

“ _Expecto patronum_!” Harry says. But his stag does not appear, and Harry feels such grief that he is shocked—this emotion is so _strong_ that is wakes him from his drifting self that he barely has time to register that the animal his Patronus has conjured is a salamander.

“Well done,” the Dark Lord says. “It is time for our ritual.”

Harry’s salamander follows the two of them. Harry can tell as his grief is slowly replaced by curiosity that the salamander, despite its small size, is fairly powerful. He can feel it’s presence even when the salamander runs ahead of them toward the ritual chamber.

When they enter the chamber, Harry notices with stark clarity that the innocent is a young girl—her brown eyes and brown hair are staring at Harry with fear and hope for release—and Harry feels guilty and tries to push It aside. He has to do this. He needs to finish this ritual.

Somehow the Dark Lord has obtained a Dementor, and then--the young girl’s scream of fear pains Harry, and then the Dementor gives her a kiss—the Dementor is leaning down, the soul the soul the soul the _soul_ —he has a soul, he had a soul, doesn’t he have two souls? No, this is a ritual, they are in a ritual to fix his soul. But this girl has a soul, didn’t she, doesn’t she? A soul, a single soul, a normal soul. But no, not anymore, her soul is gone, the Dementor took it, and now the Dementor is standing back up, and then the Dementor is leaving, and then Harry’s salamander no longer guards them from the girl with no soul— _why isn’t it guarding them from the girl with no soul—_ and then Harry’s salamander flickers faintly as it clambers up to sit on Harry’s shoulder, and then Harry realises he is crying, he is crying—souls, he has a soul, doesn’t he? He is crying and the salamander disappears.

The Dark Lord notices and he nods, as if this was to be expected—and after they have said the words and cast the necessary spells, Harry is dismissed for the night.

Harry tries to go to sleep, but he’s too busy thinking about the ritual and his soul and he is anxious, and he’s desperately craving that drifting sensation he was in only a few hours earlier. He focuses. It’s still there—a small, tiny piece of it—and Harry hides in it, and sleeps.

The next day, Harry spends it safely within the drift, although he finds himself frequently jolted out of it, and then Harry finds he has lost that drift completely as the clock rings the final night of the ritual.

Harry walks with the Dark Lord toward the ritual chamber. There, seven individuals sit on oaken stools and Harry stares at each of them. He is disgusted with himself. He feels conflicted—his mind is a storm—incoherent—but something keeps coming back as if it were caught in the waves on the beach— _be grateful, be grateful, this is a gift._

The Dark Lord instructs him to complete the ritual. He must kill all seven people, and mix their blood into a potion.

When he approaches each individual, he says to them quietly, “thank you,” before killing them. _Be grateful, be grateful_.

He thinks this is probably disturbing to them, but he needs to express his gratitude. They are fixing his soul—he has to show them that he appreciates their help somehow. When he approaches the one who sacrificed his hearing, he signs thank you while mouthing the words. The man widens his eyes and they swell with tears and the man nods—and then he is dead and Harry is moving on to the next innocent. _Be grateful, be grateful_.

He wishes that these people didn’t have to be innocent. He would have felt better about the situation. But the ritual called for innocence, and he needed to have his soul fixed or he would have been torn apart. He’s glad that the man who sacrificed his hearing seemed to understand his expression of gratitude. He must have been someone who understood the needs of Dark rituals, and Harry hopes he went in peace.

Not all of the innocents recognise their necessary deaths. The sacrifice of touch innocent screams when Harry approaches her. He says thank you despite her shouts, but he says it while he allows her to rest from her life. He dislikes this. _Be grateful_.

He doesn’t like killing. He truly doesn’t. He feels sick about this, but he has to continue. He says it repeatedly in his mind, trying to drown out the slowly dimming storm. _I have to do this, it’s the only way. I have to do this, it’s the only way. If I don’t finish, they will have died for nothing_. He vows to fight for them in the future—to protect people like them. To protect the innocent. He vows to never intentionally kill an innocent again. He hopes he can keep that promise.

He makes the potion. He submerges himself in the potion. When he rises up out of the potion, he is even more fervently upset with himself for what he has done. He solidifies the potion, and shrinks the contents.

This is when the Dark Lord is to remove the _imperio_ from Harry. Harry turns to look at his Otec, waiting for the moment when he can consume the potion.

The Dark Lord waits an unbearably long time before _finally_ releasing him. Harry suddenly feels a huge weight come off of him—the _Imperius_ curse had slowly become heavier and heavier as the week can gone on.

Harry looks at the solidified mass of potion in his hand and he takes a deep breath— _don’t do this, don’t do this, please, there’s no coming back from this_ —and he swallows.

And then there is _pain_ —

—burning—

searing blistering agonising

tortuous abominable

—pain.

Harry cannot stay conscious through this pain and he succumbs to oblivion gratefully.


	6. A Knock on the Door

Harry wakes up in the bedroom he has been using all week to find light streaming in through the window indicating it is nearing the end of the day. He blinks away the sleep from his eyes and slowly sits up, adjusting the pillows to create a cushion for his back as he leans against the headboard.

He’s exhausted.

Harry closes his eyes and rests his head in his hands. He remembers. Images race through his mind: a young girl, soulless and cold—a man with mangled caverns in the side of his head—an elderly woman with her eyes removed—a cold and vicious Harry _thanking_ these people after torturing them—god, what a monster he was—and Harry chokes on his bile and he has to keep swallowing to prevent the vomit he knows is going to come.

He cries.

What has he _done_? What has he _become_?

He doesn’t recognize himself.

Oh, god—his friends. His _time_. 1997. He has to get back to 1997. But somehow he has sleepwalked into Voldemort’s arms and—oh, _god_ , he called Voldemort _father_.

He cannot hold back any longer—he rips the covers off of him and races to the bathroom where he had thankfully left the toilet seat up and vomits. It burns. A cold sweat covers him instantly and he can feel the blood race away from his skin and he can taste the stomach acid and he spits into the toilet bowl and he spits again, trying to get rid of the taste.

He wants to brush his teeth—to get rid of the taste, that awful burning acid—but he vaguely remembers Hermione—oh, god, _Hermione_ —talking about how you should never brush your teeth right after vomiting because it damages the tooth enamel; she was such a fountain of obscure knowledge, but Harry supposes this fact isn’t too obscure considering the fact her parents were dentists.

But this makes Harry cry even more because he had completely forgotten about his goal of returning to 1997. He had become so _consumed_ with Dark Magic, and it had burrowed into his _soul_ —and then Harry remember that—oh, _god_ , _his soul_ —it’s merged with the horcrux of Lord Voldemort.

The Dark Magic, surely, was what finally woke the horcrux, what prompted it to grow. He remembers it caused him pain when he first arrived, but as he slowly fell deeper into the Dark Arts, the horcrux awakened, and—and the battle for dominance began.

But now? Now he doesn’t know what he has become, and—and he remembers Severus Snape, who is actually _really nice_ —and oh, _god_ , Severus _likes_ him, and Harry led him on, and Harry chokes on his tears—and Harry remembers how they followed and encouraged each other to use Dark Magic, and Harry remembers, now, finally destroying those lies, that the spells he has learned are _not_ intended for potion ingredient collection, not anymore at least, and that he has cast those spells on children—on _children_.

On _innocent children_.

There are plenty of excuses, but there is no justification for what he has done. He is guilty, and he needs to fix it. But first—first—

Harry wipes away the evidence of his tears. First he needs to somehow survive this meeting with Voldemort, because no matter the atrocities he has committed, and no matter how sick he feels, he has foolishly walked right into an apprenticeship with the man he is prophesied to kill.

Harry doesn’t think he can just walk away—he is almost positive that Voldemort would not allow that to happen—but maybe— _maybe_ —he can do something else; convince Voldemort that he’s not interested in his agenda, but the magic, surely?

Harry doesn’t want to admit it, but the magic, the Dark Magic—it still is tempting; it still is persuasive and Harry still can sense he is _good_ at it. And he wants to know what else he can do for it—maybe he can tell Voldemort he’s less fond of violence, and more prone toward other areas of Dark Magic—maybe he can continue this way—maybe—

A knock on the door. 

Only a heartbeat later, the door swings open and reveals the Dark Lord Voldemort.

“Good morning,” Voldemort says. “I was informed you were awake by a house elf.”

Harry nods.

“How are you feeling?” Voldemort asks, still standing in the doorway.

_Surreal_ is an apt description for this situation, Harry supposes. “Confused.”

“That’s no surprise,” Voldemort says. He waves his wand and Harry is surrounded by a grey blue colour—the brightness of the azure it had been before dulled and dimmed by the redness of the other soul. But Harry is profoundly relieved to see that it is still _blue_ —it is still _Harry_ , although obviously changed, obviously different. That brightness and clarity of Harry Potter’s original soul has vanished, and what remains is darker—tarnished—but it is still _blue_ and even though Harry doesn’t know if that means anything positive, it is something he will cling to; it is something Harry will clutch because it is a reminder of who he once was, of what he wants to be—of the future he’s trying to save. But as much as he is relieved, he is devastated because that azure—that brightness of who he once was—is gone; what is left of him is this drabness and greyness and dimness and it seems so hopeless yet hopeful at all once.

But Harry’s combined joy and grief only takes a few seconds to process, and Voldemort is paying more attention to the colour than to Harry’s face, so his reaction goes unnoticed.

“Interesting,” Voldemort says as he takes a seat by Harry’s bed. “I was anticipating,” Voldemort pauses, searching for the words, “something different.”

“Yes, my Lord?” Harry prompts. _He cannot gag, he cannot gag_ —Voldemort expects Harry to address him with adoration.

“I suppose I am surprised that your original soul was powerful enough to exert such an influence over mine that the colour remained blue; it isn’t even the slightest purple,” Voldemort says.

Harry has no idea what to say to this sort of statement, so he remains silent.

“Your original soul must have been powerful,” Voldemort continues, “and when combined with an obviously small piece of mine, it overwhelmed it so its colour did not change in the horcruxes favour. But with the power of both of them combined, I can only imagine that your power has increased as well.”

“I haven’t tried to cast any spells, my Lord,” Harry says, “but I don’t feel like I have to obey everything you say anymore, either, so I think it was successful.”

“Good,” Voldemort says. “Any other side effects?”

Harry internally panics. Does he say that he doesn’t believe in the cause anymore? Does he say that he wants nothing to do with Voldemort? Does he beg for training in Dark Magic? What does he do?

Apparently his panic was not as internal as he had hoped, because Voldemort looks at Harry, amused, and says, “You are my apprentice, Harry. You can speak freely.”

Harry takes a steadying breath. “I still want to learn Dark Magic from you,” he starts, looking at his hands which are twisted together in his lap, “but I’m not really interested in the—in the politics?”

“The politics?” Lord Voldemort says darkly. “Do you mean _my_ politics?”

“Any politics?” Harry offers, sensing he has stepping into dangerous waters. “I just want to know magic.”

Lord Voldemort sits quietly for a long time with steepled fingers. He stares into Harry’s face—Harry meets him unblinkingly, unafraid. He’s honest, he doesn’t want anything to do with politics right now, he just wants to learn magic, be with his friends, and survive. _Make it back home_. _Learn magic_. _Survive_.

“You really are a Hufflepuff, aren’t you,” Voldemort says several minutes later with wonder. “How odd.”

Harry’s face twists into a ludicrous and baffled expression. “Yes?”

“I did not anticipate this,” Voldemort says. “You are different than when we first met, but you have not lied to me in saying that you want to learn Dark Magic.”

“It’s true,” Harry confirms.

“I suppose I will have to convert you to my cause as I teach you,” Voldemort says. “I will enjoy the challenge—it has been far too long since I have had one.”

“Thank you,” Harry says—and then he has to bury any revulsion because _this is his choice this is what he has decided to do this is what he must do this is how he will survive this is who he is now: Voldemort’s apprentice who never will lose sight of the light_. “Thank you, Otec.”

Voldemort smiles. “We have several weeks before you must return to Hogwarts for your final year,” Voldemort says. “But between now and then, you will stay here, and I will teach you, and you will become greater than all of my servants. Then, when you come to your senses about politics, you will join me—but either way, I need you to swear that you will never fight against the cause of Dark Magic.”

_The cause of Dark Magic_ —Harry is filled with icy fear as he realises that now he will never be able to use this knowledge for good. But—a momentary glimpse of hope surges in Harry’s mind seconds before he is about to ask the question—the Dark Lord never specified what the cause of Dark Magic _is_. And so the cause of Dark Magic will be whatever Harry Smith deems it to be.

“I swear—which oath shall I take?” Harry asks.

“A Loyalty Vow,” Voldemort says, “to the cause of Dark Magic will suffice.”

Harry easily vows his loyalty to the cause of Dark Magic— _his_ cause of Dark Magic—that he will use Dark Magic to one day defeat the man in front of him. A different cause—but of Dark Magic, nonetheless.

“Find me as soon as you are dressed and we will begin,” Voldemort says. 

The days pass quickly. They are exhausting; from early dawn until deep into the night Harry is casting spells, learning about Voldemort’s _revolution_ (despite Harry’s disgust for the topic, he cannot deny Voldemort is a decent orator) and duelling his Death Eaters. And as the last few days of June turn into July, Harry grows more and more confident in the magic.

He asks Voldemort about healing magic one day, and Voldemort _laughs_ —“Next summer, Harry; you don’t have time for healing now.”

Harry realises Voldemort had set Harry up against the weaker Death Eaters, because each day they are getting more and more difficult to beat. Each duel takes longer, ends in more injuries—and Harry has to restrain himself far too often from using the fatal curses that spring to the tip of his tongue—that being the only rule, no intentional killing.

But one especially gruelling day, where earlier in the morning Voldemort taught and berated Harry over his failure to cast an illusion spell that reacts to spells realistically and even appears real until touched (“Use this when you are about to be captured,” Voldemort said), Harry finds himself already at his boiling point when the young Death Eater across from him manages to cut his arm with a weak _Diffindo_ , something Harry hasn’t been hit with in several weeks, Harry finally erupts, furious. Dark Magic pours out of him and swamps the room, and Harry cannot hold back the words and he finds himself casting the curse—oh _god_ , he’s cast the curse— _avada kedavra_ —and the young Death Eater—he can’t be more than eighteen— _oh, god_ —the young Death Eater falls back, dead—the duelling hall is quiet until none other than the Dark Lord Voldemort begins to applaud with a wicked grin on his face—and Harry thinks he’s going to be sick—but he _can’t_ be sick, not now—and then Harry slowly, calmly— _he is not calm he is not calm he is not calm_ —walks away from the duelling room as if it was his intention all along, to end this young Death Eater’s life like he was a spider eager to be crushed beneath his heel—Harry walks away— _he walks away_ —and Harry leaves the room and he makes his way back to his own room and he stares at the wall, unable to cry, unable to see, unable to _think_ , to _be_ , to even _understand_ that what he has done _cannot be undone_ , and— _oh, god, he killed a man today_ —and Harry sinks to the floor and he belatedly realises it’s his birthday today—he’s seventeen—and he just killed a man—he just _killed a man_ —and Harry twitches his hand, locks and _imperturbs_ the door in a lazy gesture—and cries.

Harry weeps.

What has he become? He just killed a man because his temper was short—and this is not who he wants to be. There’s not even the excuse of being influenced by Voldemort’s horcrux to fall back on like there was before—this was him, this was purely himself. He’s damaged his soul—he’s ruined himself, he’s no better than Voldemort now.

Desperate, he twitches his hand again, casting the soul revealing spell—and there it is, hovering around him is a pure grey-blue light; no interference, no other colours.

No cracks, either. Voldemort’s soul had been so _shattered_ it seemed to be held together with threads. But his soul? It has no cracks, no signs of damage.

_Remorse_ , Harry realises—he regrets what he has done and he desperately wishes to undo that single moment of rage; he is not proud of this, and the idea of taking advantage of this death for his own benefit is horrifying. He lets the colour fade away.

Hours pass.

He has to discover how to prevent this from happening again. Somehow get a handle on his anger, on his frustration—and—and what is he supposed to do when he is asked to kill in public, which is surely going to happen?

What is he supposed to do when he is on a raid? He will be asked now, Harry is sure of it.

_The illusion spell_. It’s going to be forever tainted by this day—by his birthday—oh, god, he’s never celebrating this day again—but he has to learn that illusion spell. He _has to_. He will lose his mind completely if he kills another person. Harry knows his mental state is already fragile enough, he’s clinging to sanity with the tips of his fingers.

It is late in the night when Harry finally gains the strength—the courage—to practice the illusion spell. He fails. And fails. And fails. He cries through the incantation—but he pushes through. When he can cast the spell without fail verbally, he forces himself to try it nonverbally, then wandless.

It is nearing noon on the first of August and Harry Smith has mastered the illusion spell but he has lost his hope. He’s terrified of what’s about to come—about how he’s going to survive the coming month. How he’s going to maintain his resolve to _survive, find his friends, make it back home_.

Should he even bother, though?

His friends won’t even recognise the monster he has become. He has killed; he has murdered—maybe not in cold blood, but he has seven other deaths that certainly were—and he is Voldemort’s apprentice. Should he even bother? Should he still try? It would be so much easier to just give up.

No—no, he can’t. He can’t do that to his friends, to his family, to all the people who counted on him, who will miss him—he needs to stay true, he needs to push through, to persevere, to stay loyal to _his_ cause of Dark Magic. To fulfil the prophecy in _his_ favour.

A knock on the door.

The Dark Lord Voldemort enters.

“Otec,” Harry says. The name comes easier, now that he has recommitted himself to the destruction of the monster in front of him. “I have mastered the spell you taught me yesterday.”

Voldemort raises an eyebrow in obvious doubt. “Prove it. Your performance yesterday morning left much to be desired.”

Harry casts the spell and an image of an ordinary man appears in the corner of the room.

“Does it react?”

Harry casts the pretzel-maker on the illusion. “ _Verander krakeling_ ,” he says calmly. The illusion twists and _bursts_ —Harry would have thrown up but he has cast this combination all night long, having thrown up countless times earlier that day—if he is thrown into battle, he needs to use spells he would be expected to use.

Voldemort laughs— _oh, god, this man is a monster_ —and then reaches out to touch the disfigured man, who vanishes promptly.

“Excellent, Harry,” Voldemort says. “Your spellwork should always be that exemplary, like your exciting duel last night.”

Harry had known this was coming. “I apologise for killing him, Otec,” Harry says.

Voldemort waves a dismissive hand, “No matter. I intended for you to kill one of them eventually.” A small fire of rage begins to build in Harry’s stomach as Voldemort continues, “I was not anticipating you breaking so soon, though. This is a pleasant surprise. You have more potential than I had thought initially. Regardless, what matters now is that since you have advanced to the next stage in your apprenticeship, I want your presence in a few of our less political raids—I know you dislike politics right now, Harry.”

“Thank you,” Harry says despite the anger he feels.

“I want you to cause damage. You must _not_ be seen by any bystander or victim, because I cannot risk you being seen by my enemies. But you _must_ act. Use the pretzel-maker—it will be your signature, for now, at least. It will make the people afraid.”

“But won’t they start to realise the raids are all connected?” Harry asks. “And won’t that draw their attention to you sooner?”

“That’s what I want,” Voldemort says. “If you cared about politics, Harry, I would let you know all about my plans, but to spare you from the boring details, I have refrained from inflicting you with such drudgery.”

Harry bowed his head, his attempt for information failed.

“When is the first raid?” Harry asks.

“In an hour or so. Have fun,” Voldemort says. “Today would have been spent on the illusion spell, but you have already mastered it, so during this raid, I will decide what to do next instead.”

“Thank you, Otec,” Harry says with a forced smile.

“Be good, little soul,” Voldemort says affectionately before leaving.

Harry barely manages to close the door behind him before gagging at the endearment. _Little soul_? Does Voldemort still think he’s a horcrux? _What the fuck just happened_ —be good, little soul? _What_.

Putting the disturbing moment out of his mind, Harry decides to sleep for the hour before he needs to meet up with the other Death Eaters before the raid.

When in battle, Harry uses his combination of the illusion spell and the pretzel-maker, impressing and scaring the Death Eaters he has been forced to accompany.

“Bloody hell! Why would you use a spell like that?” one of them shouts after seeing Harry cast it.

Harry shrugs. “It’s my favourite,” he says sarcastically. He knows he probably shouldn’t say that Voldemort made him—that seems juvenile, and a part of Harry does want the respect of these people, for some odd reason Harry will ignore. _You’re not lying to yourself if you don’t allow yourself to see_.

“You’re mad,” another one says. “Completely mad.”

But Harry continues to use the illusion spell. He makes sure to use the pretzel-maker the most often— _it will be your signature, for now_ —much to the horror of the villagers and his companions, but he also uses less horrific spells, simpler spells, like _reducto_ or _stupefy_.

The raid was a wild success. Fear? Instilled. Casualties on the Dark Lord’s side? None. Casualties of bystanders? High. People who threw up after the pretzel-maker illusion? Eight, five of them Death Eaters, three of them bystanders who then were killed by the same Death Eaters that threw up. People who noticed Harry was casting on illusions only? Zero. People Harry killed? Zero. People Harry traumatised? Many.

Because of the glowing reviews the raid members had of Harry, Harry reluctantly found himself going on three more raids, each one causing more trauma, each one gaining Harry a solid reputation among the Death Eaters, who all viewed Harry with constant yet terrified respect. Rumours of a man called the Contortionist begin to spread. Rumours of that same man being Harry Smith also spread.

Lord Voldemort teaches Harry more and more challenging magic. As August draws to a close, Harry finds himself rarely needing his wand as he grows more and more comfortable in the Dark Magic he has been trained in. He feels powerful, but still sometimes loses in the duels against the Death Eaters. _Everyone loses sometimes_ , Voldemort said after one of these instances, _but you must lose very little_.

Harry took it to heart. It was okay when he lost, but he resolved never to lose to the same person twice.

And then, suddenly, August ends, and it is time to return to Hogwarts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See hex colour #4F6e84 for an example of what they see for the merged soul.


	7. Rollercoaster

On the morning of the first day of September, Harry Smith is given a portkey to the platform; his supplies have been assembled by a Death Eater. Harry boards the train alone.

Unsure of when Alan and Severus are arriving, Harry stows his luggage in a spare compartment before searching up and down the train to no avail. He returns to the compartment to find it occupied by three seventh-year Ravenclaw girls, who upon seeing Harry, lose all colour in their faces and stammer for words.

“Oh, sorry Smith—we didn’t know you---we’re sorry!” they collectively manage to say.

“It’s fine,” Harry says cautiously. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing!” one of them squeaks. “Nothing at all!”

“Okay then,” Harry pauses— _why are they afraid_ —and pretends to not notice it. “I’ll just get my stuff and be going.” The girls nod eagerly and Harry backs out of the compartment with his trunk in hand.

“Women,” Harry mutters under his breath, because that _surely_ must be why they are afraid—not the rumors of the Contortionist’s true identity— _You’re lying to yourself if you don’t allow yourself to hear_ —before searching for another compartment. He decides that he’ll sit with Luke and Ian, who he saw further up the train.

“Hey!” he says cheerily as he steps into the compartment. To his dismay, they also pale as they see him.

“What’s going on? Everyone is reacting like that to me! Do I have something on me?” Harry says with frustration. Upon hearing this, Ian regains a bit of colour in his face and relaxes.

“No, no, that’s not it,” Luke says tensely, without his characteristic _I’m Luke Ridley_. “It’s just—there’s a really nasty rumour going around about you.”

“Yeah? What is it?” Harry asks, sitting down opposite the duo.

“People are saying that you joined You-Know-Who,” Ian McAllen says. “Obviously rubbish, right?” He emphasizes while turning to face Luke.

Harry gapes. _How could—deny, deny, deny_ —“No! I didn’t! How could people think that? See?”

Harry pulls up his sleeves, but Luke and Ian just stare at him blankly.

“No, I don’t see. You spent a lot of time last year with Avery and Snape,” Luke says tersely. “And everyone knows that they were going to join him. They practically shouted it from the castle roof.”

“Did they?” Harry asks, confused. Why didn’t they realise he didn’t have the Dark Mark? Do they not know about it? And he doesn’t remember Avery and Snape being vocal about Voldemort—but then again, the last months of that year were a blur of not truly being himself.

“Did you not know?” Ian asks with shock. “How could you not know? What were you doing with them?”

“I was their defence tutor,” Harry says. “And then Severus tutored potions, and Avery did transfiguration.”

“Snape is the best at potions,” Ian says. “But Avery’s not that great at transfiguration.”

“Well, it was mostly me being their defence tutor—” Harry starts.

“How could you be so stupid, Harry?” Luke interrupts. “Were you blind last year? Didn’t you know what kind of reputation you were building?”

Harry just sits there stock still and shakes his head slowly. “No,” he says, “I had no idea.”

“You basically stopped talking to us!” Luke says.

“I don’t remember,” Harry says quietly. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t remember?” Luke says viciously. “Why can’t you?”

“Something was wrong with my head last year,” Harry says, trying to explain, “I saw some healers over the summer and they helped fix it. But it affected my personality and mood and memory. Kind of like a parasite.”

“You had a head parasite,” Luke scoffs. “You expect us to believe you had a head parasite.”

Harry can only nod.

“Bollocks—”

“Hey, I believe him, Luke,” Ian says. “He’s acting way different now than he did last year. Can’t you tell? It’s a lot more like how he was when we first met him. That when you got it, right?”

Harry nods.

“It was scary, mate. I’m glad you’re better now,” Ian says. “I forgive you, but I just want you to know that for the first couple weeks people are going to be scared of you. Probably best to stay away from that crowd for now.”

Harry’s heart aches— _Severus_. He hasn’t seen him in months. But the last time he saw him, he was still a half-possessed horcrux. Would they even get along? Does Severus still want to date him? Harry’s definitely not interested in Severus romantically— _god_ , Severus was his _teacher_ , he was _never_ interested—but he desperately wants his friend again.

But Harry knows he needs to see Dumbledore before anything else—he has to tell him that he is a good guy, on his side—that even though he uses Dark Magic, he’s still fighting for the good people. Whether or not Dumbledore believes him is a different matter altogether.

“Thank you, Ian,” Harry says. “Luke, I’m being honest. I still consider you a close friend, but—” Harry pauses. He exhales loudly. “I understand if you don’t want to be seen around me anymore.”

Luke hesitates. Ian’s belief in Harry was convincing, but clearly not enough. “I’m sorry, Harry. I can’t risk my family finding out, and I’m trying to get a job in the Ministry after school, and—and I just can’t risk it,” he says. “Your reputation—if it gets better, then we can hang out again, but until then?”

_Grief_. Overwhelming grief; anger too. Anger at Voldemort for this, for his actions in the future, for how he killed Harry’s parents, for the horcruxes, for losing his friends, one-by-one-by-one.

“Okay, Luke,” Harry says. “There’s no problem in our sharing a dorm?”

Luke shakes his head in the negative.

“Good-bye, Luke,” Harry says. He nods a good-bye to Ian, understanding that Ian will choose Luke over him, no offense intended, picks up his trunk, and walks out of the compartment.

The train has already left the station. Harry searches for an empty compartment, but before he finds one, Severus Snape finds him.

“Harry!” Severus waves his arm, beckoning him into a compartment. “We’re in here!”

“Severus,” Harry says with a smile. “How’ve you been?”

“How have _I_ been?” Severus says incredulously. “Pull the other one—tell me about _your_ holiday.” Severus holds the door open for Harry to drag his trunk inside the compartment where Avery is lounging. 

“Enlightening,” Harry says after he pushes Avery’s feet off of the seat and sits across from Severus. Severus has gotten taller, Harry notices—their knees bump against each other’s in the cramped compartment—they’ve outgrown the space. Harry doesn’t make an effort to move them away, but instead stretches out his legs further, letting them tangle with Severus’s. Platonically. That’s all it is. The memories he has of how he got romantically involved with Severus are so fuzzy that he has no recollection of how it even happened. He didn’t even notice Severus showing any signs of increased affection beforehand.

“That’s it? That’s _all_ you have to say?” Avery drawls after several seconds of waiting for Harry to explain. Alan is glaring at the space between Harry and Snape—at the floor or their legs or nothing at all.“Or are you too good for us now?”

Harry shoots a dismayed look at Avery before continuing, “Sorry. I learned a lot of magic and did a lot of things, but I don’t really know where to begin. It’s all a sort of blur.”

“What were your days like?” Severus asks, a faint smile on his face. Harry can tell he’s pleased when Harry instigated physical contact, especially since the seat next to Severus is blocked by Avery’s bag. Harry wants to pull his legs back immediately, but knows this will hurt more than a later explanation.

“I spent the mornings with the Dark Lord,” Harry says after nonchalantly casting Severus’s _muffliato_ charm on the compartment door with a flick of his hand. Severus breaks out into a grin when he sees this, while Avery becomes even more sullen. “He taught me primarily combat spells, with a few general support and warding spells as well.”

“Dark Magic?” Severus says.

In response, Avery scoffs. “Can you _imagine_ the Dark Lord teaching anything but Dark Magic? Let’s be real, he wouldn’t waste his time on anything but the most serious magic.”

“He also taught me a lot about behaviour,” Harry says, “which isn’t magic related. He’s not just brilliant with magic, but with a lot of other things as well.”

Avery rolls his eyes. “Of course he would have to teach _you_ about behaviour—you’re just another bloody orphan,” he spat.

“Oi! Stop being a manky tosser, Alan,” Severus says throwing a shoe— _where did he get a shoe,_ Harry can’t help but wonder, seeing as Severus is wearing both of his—at Avery’s head. Avery somehow dodges the shoe, which hits the window with a vibrant ringing sound.

“Piss off, Avery,” Harry says. “What’s gotten into you?”

“It’s not fair, is all,” Avery says belligerently, folding his arms, the random shoe forgotten. “That you, a _Hufflepuff_ , becomes the Dark Lord’s apprentice when my family has been following him for years and I get passed up.”

“Where did this come from? You were fine just a few months ago!” Harry says, completely astonished.

“I thought things over after you left and decided it on my own.” Avery turns away from Harry and faces the window. “And I spent a lot of time practicing Dark Magic on my own, and I know I could beat you in a fight, no matter your _exclusive training_. I duelled every night this summer.”

“So did I,” Harry says. “I also went on raids. I’m not a novice.”

Severus’s eyes widen. “He sent you out on _raids_? But—Harry, you don’t even have the mark!”

“See—that’s another reason why you’re not worthy! He won’t even mark you! He’s ashamed of you!” Avery says, his voice rising.

“That’s not it at all,” Harry says defensively. “The Dark Lord is _not_ ashamed of me.”

Is he really arguing about this? Harry wants to steal back his words, but knows he can’t—because they’re _true_ , for one, and because a small part of Harry is actually _proud_.

“Oh really? Then why didn’t even have an initiation? You’re just some backwater secret—I deserve the power! I deserved to be chosen!” Avery shouts, picking up the random shoe in his frustration.

“Alan—we both know Harry’s more powerful than both of us! Remember all last year?”

“He was lucky! He’s an embarrassment—”

“—more powerful—”

“—disgraced my family and he—”

“—wandless magic—”

“—only got the apprenticeship—”

“—natural talent—"

“—because he bent over for—”

“SILENCE!” Harry roars, and with a sweeping motion of his hand, both Severus and Avery have their mouths closed against their will, and despite their struggling, no noise escapes them. “Merlin, I’ve had enough of this,” Harry says, rubbing his temple. “I’m sorry, Alan, that you are upset with my apprenticeship. There’s nothing we can do about it now, and if you have issues with it, take it up with the Dark Lord, okay? Not with me.” Harry decides to try and warn Avery that this sort of talk is dangerous in front of Voldemort. “How dare you insinuate such things about me, and about our Lord. Saying those things could get you killed.”

It fails. Avery’s eyes boil with unrestrained anger. 

“Sorry, Sev, but you weren’t helping. I’ll take it off you, but I think Alan needs to cool down a bit,” Harry says, and with another flick of a finger, Severus finds himself able to speak once more.

Severus rubs his jaw. “That hurt,” he says bitterly.

“Avery, you just can’t say things like that,” Harry repeats. “I don’t know what world I’ve stumbled into. Everyone on this train seems to hate me, except for you,” he continues, gesturing at Severus.

“Even those Hufflepuffs?” Severus says.

“Luke thinks he’ll get a bad reputation if he’s seen around me now.” Harry shrugs. “I guess it’s probably true, though,” he says, twisting his hands in his lap helplessly. “And I ran into some Ravenclaws who were _terrified_ of me.”

Severus casts a wary glance at Avery, who is twisting his expression into a mocking snarl and holding his wand. “That comes with the territory,” he says.

“I know, but I wish this year could be as light-hearted as last year,” Harry says wistfully.

“I can always pretend to be Luke,” Severus says with a smirk. “I’m Severus Snape!”

“Please, no,” Harry laughs.

A few days into term, Harry finds himself at the gargoyle in front of the Headmaster’s office. He’s staring at the statue blankly. This is the moment—the tipping point—when Harry decides to let Dumbledore know he’s on the _good_ side even if he’s still dark. That he still wants to defeat Voldemort, even though he’s still his apprentice.

Harry takes a fortifying breath.

This also has the potential to go very wrong. If Dumbledore doesn’t trust him, if he decides to turn him away, if Dumbledore doesn’t want his assistance, if he turns him in.

There are many possibilities, and even the good ones are terrifying. But Harry has no other choice: he has sworn his loyalty to the cause of Dark Magic. To _his_ cause.

He asks the gargoyle if he can see Dumbledore, expecting no response, hoping for no response. But to both his delight and disappointment, the gargoyle twists, and so Harry steps forward and takes the spiralling stairs.

He knocks on the door, and hears Albus Dumbledore’s gentle voice say, “Come in.”

Dumbledore is sitting at his desk, with his half-moon spectacles perched on his nose. He gestures Harry towards a chair and continues to write out what Harry presumes is a letter. Harry waits for a few minutes before Dumbledore calmly puts the quill he is holding away into its stand, and uses a blotter to soak up excess ink, careful to avoid any ink from getting on his desk.

“I prefer to do this by hand,” Dumbledore says conversationally. “I find it gives me a bit of a break in between my tasks.”

“I’ve never used one like that before,” Harry says. “I’ve used blotting paper, but never an actual roll-y device that you have.”

“You will have to try it.” Dumbledore sets the blotter aside. He folds the parchment, rummages in his desk, selects a light blue wax disk from its depths. He places it in a melting spoon and heats it above a candle. “I only do this for old friends,” Dumbledore confesses. “If it’s for acquaintances or people I don’t care for, I just use a spell.”

Harry flashes a half-smile. This is getting excessive, he feels.

Seeing that the wax has melted fully, Dumbledore pours it carefully onto the seam and then carefully sets the seal to centre on the melted wax.

“Alas,” Dumbledore declares after he lets go of the stamp. “Thank you for your patience. What can I do for you, Mr Smith?”

“I—uh,” Harry begins, choking on his words. He coughs a few times to clear his throat before trying again. “Sorry,” he says. “I—I want—”

“Yes?” Dumbledore prompts. He has realised that this meeting is not a casual encounter, and has taken on a sombre and serious demeanour.

“I want help,” Harry blurts out finally, before burying his head in his hands. _That is not what he wanted to say._

“Pardon?” Dumbledore asks, adjusting his posture in his chair.

“I mean, I want to help. You, that is,” Harry corrects. “I want to help you.”

Dumbledore raises his eyebrows. Harry can’t help but note in his panic that they look like giant fuzzy white caterpillars. “You want to help _me_?”

“I—” Harry takes a fortifying breath. “I can help you in the war. I’ve a unique position and can give you information that could hopefully help you defeat Voldemort.”

Dumbledore sits up sharply. “What have you _done_?” he says with horrified eyes.

“Um—” Harry starts.

“Don’t tell me,” Dumbledore interrupts. He pushes back from his chair to begin pacing his office.

“You’re just a _child_ ,” Dumbledore says despairingly. “I knew he was doing it, but I didn’t want to believe it.”

“No, I’m not—”

“Why did you join him? Why did you change your mind?” Dumbledore says sharply, turning to face Harry. “Why are you here? What do you need in return?”

Harry raises his hands in attempt to placate the onslaught of questions, but in doing so, his sleeves fall, revealing his empty forearms—and immediately Dumbledore transforms into righteous anger.

“Is this a _joke_ to you?” Dumbledore says seriously.

“No! I’m not Marked, but I’m still—” Harry tries.

“You’re still what?” Dumbledore asks, calming down.

“Still able to help,” Harry pleads. “I know I don’t look like I’m involved, but I swear, I am—and I can get information; maybe not so far as to battle plans, but more along the lines of what topics he’s researching, interested in; those sort of things.”

“How could you know those things without being Marked?” Dumbledore asks. “No one can get that much information without a Dark Mark.”

“I just—I just can, please, trust me,” Harry says. He doesn’t actually want to admit he’s Voldemort’s _apprentice_.

“I’m afraid you haven’t given me any reason to trust you yet,” Dumbledore says sadly.

“But—I’m trustworthy, I promise!” Harry says earnestly. “How can I prove it?”

“By telling me how you can know these things.” Dumbledore retakes his seat. He removes the stamp from the wax and puts it away.

Harry’s response gets caught in his throat. “It’s because I’m—” He can’t actually _say_ the words. _Bloody hell, how could he have missed a secrecy charm like this?_ “I’m—” his mouth gapes open as his throat closes.

“Oh,” Dumbledore says as he looks more carefully at Harry. “You seem to be cursed to secrecy on the matter. I suppose that explains why you can’t tell me.”

Harry nods. He had no idea this was actually the case, and Harry is furious about it, but there’s nothing he can do about it until he has suitable time to work through the possibilities. _It must have been Avery_ , Harry thinks darkly.

“Well then,” Dumbledore continues. “Why do you actually want to be an informant?”

“It’s wrong,” Harry says immediately. “What they’re doing is wrong.”

“Which part?”

“The murdering and torturing and—and the whole thing! The way they treat Muggles and Muggleborns and the discrimination,” Harry explains fervently.

“And what about their usage of Dark Magic?” Dumbledore says carefully.

Harry pauses. “I—I don’t think Dark Magic is bad. The way they’re using it is, though.”

Dumbledore shakes his head sadly. “Then you truly aren’t against what they stand for, I’m afraid,” he says.

“But I am!” Harry says. “What they’re doing is wrong, and I can give you information that can help stop him!”

“But you think Dark Magic should be allowed?” Dumbledore prompts.

“Yes, for some people!”

“But how do we decide which people? How do we determine which people won’t decide to delve into the side of Dark Magic meant for murder and torture? And what Dark Magic even exists other than to murder and torture?” Dumbledore says.

“Not all of it is bad—” Harry starts.

“It’s too risky,” Dumbledore says, ignoring Harry. “We can’t allow Dark Magic to be practiced. And if you truly wish to give information, and if you truly were against Lord Voldemort, then you would understand the danger that is Dark Magic.”

Harry shakes his head. “No, that’s not how it is!”

“There is no other way to see it, I’m afraid,” Dumbledore concludes. “I wish you luck, and safety. I hope that you will return to me when you see the error of your ways. If you feel inclined, might I recommend the works of Valotumma Opettaja, the Finnish philosopher that actually wrote the book on the differences between Light and Dark Magic.”

“The name’s a bit tongue in cheek,” Harry says, unimpressed.

“Why would you say so?” Dumbledore asks. Those caterpillar eyebrows raise up in dismay over Harry’s comment.

“So, is this a no, thank you?” Harry asks.

“It’s a _not yet_ ,” Dumbledore clarifies. “I already have trusted informants in place, and although I can tell you were authentic in your request, to let you do so immediately would be foolish on my part in case you were planted by Voldemort.”

Harry nods slowly. He supposes this makes sense. “How would you know I’m not planted?”

“I’m afraid I may never know,” Dumbledore says. “Not without some unsavoury methods that might be frowned upon in polite company.”

Harry raises a brow. “I’m not exactly polite company.”

“Ah, but let me pretend,” Dumbledore says. “At least allow me the illusion of your youth. Come back to me when you’re out of school. Then we can reconsider. I doubt you will be able to provide much information anyways while term is in session.”

Harry nods slowly. “Okay,” he says, dragging out the word in his confusion. This conversation has been a complete disaster. Dumbledore has steered it all over the place.

“Hurry along then,” Dumbledore _shoos_ Harry away. “You’ve much to learn still.”

Harry leaves the Headmaster’s office.

As the next few weeks pass, Harry becomes thoroughly convinced that his life is absurd; he offered to _spy_ for Dumbledore and was turned down. The conversation was a roller-coaster and a landslide; quite frankly, it didn’t make any sense since Dumbledore’s mood changed so rapidly. His friend Alan Avery is quickly become increasingly volatile with his emotions; he’s growing more and more sadistic, first to anger and last to calm down. He’s still in this awkward half-dating dance with Severus Snape, who’s actually _really nice_. Harry makes the mistake of telling Severus this one day, and Severus laughs louder until he collapses to the floor and cries from the effort of his amusement. When Severus finally wipes the tears from his eyes, he tells Harry that he loves him—and Harry is terrified by this statement and can only smile back, uncertain if that is an intentional declaration of love or a spur of the moment, “wow you’re so funny that I can’t help but tell you I love you” statement. They spend more time together, finding moments alone, away from Avery and his boiling temper and unpredictable moods. Their Dark Magic tutorials in the evenings stop when Avery brings an _imperiused_ First Year Gryffindor into their abandoned classroom for them to torture. Even Severus agrees this is going too far.

But Severus still believes in Lord Voldemort. Harry’s carefully worded questions—“Your partner did most of the work, and she’s Muggleborn; do you really think she shouldn’t be allowed here?” receives an answer of “Is this a trick question? Of course I do.” Inquiries like “How would we get rid of all of the Muggles?” receive responses along the lines of “I’m sure our Lord has all of the details worked out.”

It’s disappointing, but Harry _knows_ that somehow Severus ends up running to Dumbledore at some point. But does he actually betray Voldemort? Oh, _god_ , he sure hopes so. Otherwise—otherwise—otherwise, it does make sense why Severus would hate him in the future. _But he’s never going to find out, anyways. And I can’t stay with someone who believes in Voldemort’s cause_. But then what is Harry doing _now_? _I’m acting my part, I’m collecting useful information_.

Harry is no longer good at lying to himself. He is too afraid to tell Severus that he doesn’t want to date him, too afraid of their friendship falling apart, too afraid to lose the last person in this school who will talk to him. He cares for Severus, it is true, but their affection is drastically unequal. He is staying apprenticed to Voldemort because he wants the knowledge only Voldemort can give him. He probably will stay with Severus even if he never truly betrays Voldemort. But—and this is the most important part—Harry will still fulfil the prophecy. Harry will still end Voldemort. He’s just taking the—the scenic route. A circuitous route. The long way.

He’s enjoying the ride. He has to make it back to 1997. He has to make it back home. And if he enjoys himself along the way? All the more power to him, Harry reasons. This time is to gain knowledge, and become the best wizard he can be.

It is late October when Harry asks Avery for help with their transfiguration homework, only to have Avery suddenly stand up, knocking his chair to the ground, his hands twitching.

“You alright, mate?” Harry asks.

Avery’s lips are pursed tightly. “No,” he spits. “No, I’m not alright.”

Harry exchanges a quick glance with Snape. “What’s going on?”

“I just can’t believe that _you_ , the Dark Lord’s _apprentice_ , are _struggling_ with transfiguration of all things! _I’m_ not! How on earth are you even worthy of his attention!” Avery makes sure to check his surroundings before saying this, but his words are not without venom.

“Alan,” Snape hisses, “you’ve got to stop this. Have you been confounded?”

“No, Severus, I’m fine,” Avery says. “But I can’t deal with someone who is so _obviously_ inferior to me and yet has greater opportunity despite being a _Mudblood_.”

Harry gapes at Avery. “What the— _what_ did you call me?”

“A Mudblood,” Avery spits as he hurriedly throws his books into his bag. “That’s what you are, it’s obvious to anyone who even knows you. I refuse to be seen with you anymore.”

“Hold up—what’s really going on?” Harry says, grabbing Alan’s shoulder. “That can’t be it.”

“You _really_ want to know?” Alan hisses.

“Yes!”

“Fine,” Alan spins around and gets right up into Harry’s face. His anger transforms his features into a monstrous caricature of sanity. “It’s because over the summer I find out that you’re dating _Severus_ , of all people, when I’ve made it perfectly clear to him that that _I_ was interested in you. He doesn’t fancy you at all until I say something, and then he flaunts it in my face every single day!

“And if that’s not enough,” Alan shouts, “I find out that you’re completely incompetent! You don’t even _care_ about me—you don’t care about anyone but yourself! You’re useless! You’re so ignorant! And you’re so _proud_ of yourself—look at me, I’m the Dark Lord’s apprentice—but you’re nothing but a _waste_. I can’t believe I ever fancied you in the first place. You _disgust_ me.”

Before Harry has a chance to respond, Avery throws his bag onto his shoulder and storms out of the abandoned classroom. Harry meets Severus’s equally stunned gaze.

Severus leans over to straighten Avery’s abandoned chair. “Well,” he says, “I knew he was pissed, but I didn’t expect _that_.”

Harry runs a hand through his hair. “I know I didn’t. What he said, is it true?”

Severus hesitates. “Yes,” he admits.

“Sev—“ Harry says, pressing his hand to his forehead. “That’s—that’s mean.”

Severus shrugs. “I mean, I guess so, but it doesn’t warrant _that_ kind of response. He told me he fancied you months before I did anything. He had plenty of time to make a move on you before I did, so I figured it was fair game.”

“Still, how do you think he should have responded?” Harry asks. “Been all, ‘Cheers for you?’”

Severus scoffs. “I’m not a fortune-teller. Ask the Divination professor.”

“That’s beside the point,” Harry says. “You know we’re not dating, right?”

“Yeah, I know.” Severus shrugs. “You’re kind of emotionally unavailable.”

“You’re a good friend,” Harry says. “But I think that’s it.”

Severus nods in agreement. “You’re a terrible boyfriend, anyways.”

Harry snorts. A few moments pass in silence.

“I think you should apologise to Avery,” says Harry.

“Not if he apologises first.”

“What for?” Harry asks incredulously. “What did he do wrong?”

“You should have _seen_ him after you left for the Dark Lord’s this summer. He was completely depressed _he_ wasn’t chosen to be the apprentice.”

“And you didn’t tell him you kissed me?” Harry folds his arms.

“No,” Severus says. “I told him that I thought we were dating after he got out of a conversation with his parents. He was upset, and I wanted to get his mind off of it.”

“That was a terrible idea,” Harry says blithely.

Severus shrugs. “I’m aware of that now,” he says. “Clearly his parents were mad with him over something, so it was poor timing.”

“Could they have been disappointed he wasn’t chosen?” Harry asks.

Severus shrugs. “Possibly. But really, he never would have been even if you weren’t around. He’s not strong enough.”

“He’s smart though,” Harry says. “He’s really smart.”

“Not powerful. Theoretical knowledge can’t make that up,” Severus says as he holds a quill with both hands.

“Then you have me. No theoretical knowledge but all of the power.”

“That’s not completely true,” Severus says. “You know the theory when it interests you.”

“And what interests me isn’t schoolwork,” Harry says, staring down at the transfiguration book in front of him.

“Exactly. But you could tell me plenty about obscure spells and how they work, about wandless magic, about rituals, even the magic in our Defence class. Just because you don’t care about transfiguration doesn’t mean you’re not worthy of your position. And the magic we learn here is Light Magic—it’s completely different.”

Harry raises one shoulder half-heartedly. “I guess so. But still, to know he’s not supportive isn’t exactly encouraging.”

“Ignore him. He’s a tosser,” Severus says. He smiles. “And besides, now we have much more time to ourselves.” He raises his eyebrows suggestively.

Harry chokes on air. “Sev!” he protests. “You can’t do that!”

“There no reason why I can’t,” Severus says with a grin.

“God, you know just what to say to make me feel better,” Harry rolls his eyes.

“That’s because I’m actually _really nice_ ,” Severus says.


	8. The Lost Years

Their seventh year passes without major incident—something remarkable for Harry—and then they are graduated, free from school, from their childhood, and sent out into the world in the early summer of 1978. In two years, Harry Potter will be born. In three years, Harry Potter’s parents will die. In the meantime, Harry Smith is still Voldemort’s apprentice; Severus Snape is still a Death Eater; Alan Avery is still a sadistic bastard.

Harry Smith sends a letter to Albus Dumbledore, requesting a meeting—the year is over, maybe Dumbledore will reconsider his offer to spy. When Albus responds in the negative, Harry is furious.

“How could he be so ignorant! I’m offering him good information, and he’s just saying _no_! Why wouldn’t he at least try it out? See if it’s any good? But just to shut it down?” Harry fumes. “No wonder they’ve been doing poorly, if this is the way they’ve been acting.”

“I’m going to pretend you’re making sense and I know what you’re talking about,” Severus says lazily from the couch in the flat they share.

“Thanks, Sev,” Harry says. “I’m just a little irritated with some people that are refusing my help.”

“Their loss,” Severus says, closing his eyes. “Tell me what you’ve been learning recently.”

“If you tell me what his plans are,” Harry says, moving to sit next to Severus on the couch.

“But you already know?” Severus says.

“Yeah, but he tells you different things than me,” Harry says. It’s true, because Harry doesn’t actually know any of the politics, since he has still not asked to be included in the campaign. He suspects Voldemort thinks Harry is doing this out of self-preservation, and that is the only reason why Voldemort is allowing it; also because Voldemort also treats him as if he were a horcrux still, despite its obvious absence.

But despite the disappointment from Dumbledore, Voldemort somehow is both extremely brutal as a teacher yet—Harry hesitates to say this word because it goes against everything that he stands for, but in teaching it somehow is present— _nice_ —oh, _god_ , Harry can’t believe he even _thought_ that word in association with Voldemort—regardless, Voldemort is an adequate teacher, and Harry is excelling in the Dark Arts.

He continues to go on the occasional raid. As always, he conjures the illusions and uses the pretzel-maker spell on the said illusions. He is becoming a terrifying figure, written about in the Daily Prophet as the Contortionist. It makes Harry feel sick, but Voldemort is so pleased he decides to let Harry actually learn Dark healing spells.

In 1979, a year after graduating from Hogwarts, Harry asks Voldemort if he can be taught about Dark wards—and Voldemort apparently has been preparing for this question to be asked because the following two years become an excessive programme in wards; offensive wards, defensive wards; repelling wards, attracting wards; curses that can be tied to wards—wards for the home, wards for the field, wards for the clothes, wards for the soul; Voldemort is a ward-master and his excitement is contagious. It is clear that Voldemort is almost _embarrassed_ —no, that’s not an emotion Voldemort feels—of his fondness for wards, but his pride in his extensive knowledge overrides any other emotion.

So Harry becomes well-versed in wards, and he loses track of the months because of the amount of time he is dedicating to his studies.

But reality comes slamming into him one day when Severus returns home and tells Harry that Albus Dumbledore requested Severus Snape to teach potions at Hogwarts.

“ _What_?” Harry says, completely confused—until he realises the date. It’s 1980. It’s _August_ of _1980_.

Harry Potter has been born already, and Harry Smith didn’t even realise it. He had been ignoring his birthday as usual—it only holds bad memories for him now—memories of a young Death Eater goading him, a flash of green light, his shaking hands, the number eight—shameful memories, a day of mourning, not celebration—a day to forget.

“Oh my god,” Harry says, completely stunned. He sits down heavily, putting his head in his hands. “What the—oh my _god_.”

“Are you seriously that shocked that I could teach at Hogwarts?” Severus says, almost amused.

“No—that’s not it—congrats, actually—I just didn’t realise—it’s _August_ ,” Harry says dumbly.

“It has been,” Severus agrees, “for a while now. Welcome back to reality.”

“No I just—” Harry shuts his mouth, finally understanding that he won’t be able to say anything meaningful. “How’d you get the job?” he finally says.

Severus quirks a smile. “I _applied_ for Defence, but Dumbledore refused. I’m teaching potions instead.”

“You’re good at potions,” Harry says.

“Yes, but now I have to _teach_ it. I’ve no idea how to do that,” Severus says. “And they’re all going to blow themselves up, I’m sure of it.”

“Just—I don’t know, wing it, I guess?” Harry says. “I’ve got no idea either.”

“That’s rubbish, and you know it. You’re a natural teacher,” Severus says. “You’ve taught me so much magic.”

“Same for you!” Harry says. “You just need to be less provocative about it, and you’ll be fine!”

Severus laughs. “Can you imagine! If I teach all those kids how I teach you? What do you think they’ll do?”

Harry smiles. “You wouldn’t be teaching anymore, so if you don’t want the job, that’s your way out.”

Severus snorts. “I’m not really looking forward to it, but I don’t really have a choice. Both Dumbledore _and_ our Lord want me to take the post.”

“Wait— _both_ of them?” Harry says.

Severus stills momentarily. “Yeah, both of them,” he shrugs, pretending that he never stiffened. “I guess Slughorn’s retiring and they’ve no suitable candidates, so Dumbledore wants me there.”

Harry looks at Severus carefully. He moves to drag Severus down to sit beside him on the couch. Harry takes a long look at Severus, searching his eyes. “Hey, Sev?”

Severus looks at Harry slowly. “Yeah?”

“What’s the _real_ reason?” Harry says. “You know you can tell me anything, right? And I mean it— _anything_.”

Severus shifts uncomfortably. “It’s what I said—there’s a vacancy and they need—”

“Don’t lie to me,” Harry cuts Severus off. “I know you well enough that what Dumbledore wants isn’t something that you care about unless something’s changed.”

Severus pushes his hair out of his face. “I don’t know if I can trust you, Harry.”

Harry’s face drops. “Oh, Sev,” he says before wrapping Severus in his arms. “Of course you can. You’re my best friend. You matter more to me than anything else here.”

“I can’t risk it,” he whispers. “And I’m sorry about this.”

“Then let me tell you something,” Harry says. “Because I trust you.”

“Don’t do this to me, Harry,” Severus says angrily. “Don’t make me feel guilty because of this. Don’t spill your secrets so that I might spill mine.”

“That’s not what I’m trying to do!” Harry protests.

“Then what is it?” Severus says, pushing Harry away and standing up. “Because I can’t see any other reason.”

Harry pulls at his hair. “No, Sev—”

“And stop calling me that!”

“You’ve never minded me saying it before!” Harry says, shocked.

“Only Lily can call me that!” Severus shouts before clamping his hand over his mouth.

Harry’s face lost all colour. “So _that’s_ what this is about? _Lily_? A crush from over 4 years ago? When we’ve been friends for years and now you suddenly don’t want me to call you something because your bully _crush_ called you it?”

“That’s not why!” Severus says.

“Then tell me why!” Harry shouts. “Tell me why I’m not allowed—when she’s been so horrible to you all these years—when she’s never even cared to send you a letter, when she doesn’t even care if you _live or die_ and now you suddenly are angry at me for calling you a nickname you let me and other people use the entire time I’ve known you? God—you don’t make any sense!”

“It’s not reserved—”

“Then why did you stop me?” Harry stands. “Why stop me now?”

“ _Because_ , Harry, she’s going to _die_ ,” Snape shouts before breaking into tears. He covers his face, pushes past Harry and rushes into the bedroom, where Harry can hear the door lock.

_What the fuck just happened_ —and then Harry understands because this is the point, this is when Snape finally defected, because Snape told Dumbledore that his parents are being targeted, because Snape had overheard the prophecy, because Snape had told Voldemort, because Voldemort decided the Potters met the criteria, because there were plans to attack them, because Dumbledore didn’t trust Snape, because Dumbledore wanted to keep Snape close, because Voldemort wants a spy inside Dumbledore’s organisation, because Snape is grieving the loss of his childhood friend, even though they grew apart, he is grieving the lost innocence of youth and the happy memories that are associated—and this is the moment when Snape becomes Dumbledore’s spy, when Dumbledore believes Snape because Snape is turning his back on Voldemort because of love, not because of an unspecified reason—which makes sense now, because why would someone do it for no good reason when you could turn against him for love, for memory, for childhood, for those halcyon years of youth.

And Harry regrets his behaviour, his anger, his confusion, because _of course_ Severus is feeling short, his temper frayed—he’s just decided to turn his back against the Dark Lord and here he is, living with that man’s very apprentice—the theoretical epitome of darkness.

And so Harry knocks three times on the bedroom door.

“Severus?” Harry says softly. “Can you let me in, please? I’ve something I want to tell you.”

A quiet rustling sound, and then the soft _click_ of the lock from the _alohomora_ cast by his partner. Harry steps inside the dimly lit room to find Severus laying face-down on the bed, in what would in other circumstances be a humorous sight.

“Sev—erus?” Harry corrects himself as he slips onto the bed and lays down next to him. “I want you to know that I don’t believe in the Dark Lord’s cause—I’m not on his side, even if I’m his apprentice.”

Severus stiffens and then slowly turns his head to look at Harry with horrified wonder in his eyes. “ _What_?”

“It’s been this way for a long time—since that first ritual, actually,” Harry says.

“That long? Why didn’t you just leave—oh,” Severus stops himself, realising quickly what Harry himself had known. “You can’t just _leave_.”

“I’m his apprentice in magic only. I requested to have little involvement in his politics, and any magic I use on raids is cast on illusions,” Harry confesses, reaching out a hand to Severus.

“Why are you telling me this?” Severus says. “Aren’t you worried I would tell?”

“No, I’m not,” Harry says. “Because you’re on the same side as me, aren’t you?”

“Dumbledore’s?”

Harry shakes his head. “No—the side of Dark Magic. The side where we want Voldemort gone, but we still want to be able to practice our magic. We’re good at it, Severus,” Harry says.

Severus nods reluctantly. “Yes, but we probably shouldn’t be. It’s mostly harmful.”

Harry shakes his head. “No, what I’ve learned these past years is that it’s actually way more than combat spells—but that’s what most people learn and think of when people say Dark Magic.”

“Like those wards?”

“And healing spells,” Harry says. “And they’re powerful, and _good_. No scary blood rituals or sacrifices needed.”

Severus thinks quietly. “I’m sorry—but even though I do love you, I still love Lily.”

Harry sits quietly. “I know, and I think I’ve always known. And that’s okay, I think. But I don’t ever want you to compare me to her again. We’re different.”

Severus nods. Severus blinks away a few tears. “I’m sorry, Harry. It was insensitive.”

“And I’ll stop calling you that,” Harry says. “Especially since they’re in danger.”

“There was a prophecy,” Severus says. “Their son—they named him Harry, actually, isn’t that funny?—is supposed to defeat the Dark Lord. I made the mistake of telling the Dark Lord about the prophecy. I have never regretted anything as much as that.”

Harry puts an arm around Severus. “I’m so sorry,” he says.

“It’s just a waiting game, now,” Severus says. “We wait until someone dies. Whichever one dies first—to the victor goes the spoils.”

It’s November 19th, 1981, and Harry Smith is alone in his apartment. He has already watched his friend flee the house a few weeks ago—undoubtedly going to check on his childhood friend, only to discover her dead—he has already watched the fireworks in the sky—he has already gone through four cycles of drunk-sober-drunk this night alone and is currently in a pitiful state of sobriety, with the sobering potions surrounding him and the empty liquor bottles beside them. He always was a lightweight.

This is it. Harry Potter is at the Dursleys. His childhood has begun—and his parents are dead. God, why does he feel so horrible? He couldn’t have prevented this—it had to have happened—but what was Voldemort thinking? Didn’t Harry even tell him this was going to happen? Or did Voldemort forget—he _was_ becoming rapidly unhinged toward the end, so Harry was able to spend less and less time with the monster—Harry’s warning from four years earlier? Or was Harry vague enough that Voldemort never knew— _god_ , he hopes this was the case, since Harry didn’t tell him it was about to happen, out of fear for his own safety. The thought process leading up to Voldemort’s decision to attack the Potter’s will always be completely unknown.

Harry has no idea what’s going on in the rest of the world. He’s locked himself away—his head hurts, his heart is pounding in his temples, and he doesn’t know where Severus is—he’s been gone since that fateful night, his purpose is effectively gone. Except for a small note in the Daily Prophet that Severus was hailed a key figure in Voldemort’s defeat, his friend has all but disappeared. So Harry can do nothing but wait for the aurors to come.

A knock on the door.

They’ve arrived. Harry stands to go let them in, grateful he’s in a sober state at the moment. He barely manages to open the door before he is immobilised by the squadron of aurors.

“Mr Harry Smith, you’re under arrest on suspicion of Death Eater activity. You do not have to say anything. But, it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Harry says, grateful he still can speak.

“We will be transporting you to the Ministry of Magic, Department of Magical Law Enforcement in approximately thirty seconds. We will be travelling via portkey.”

The thirty seconds feel more like five, and then Harry is dropping out of the air onto the hard floor of what looks like a completely barren custody room.

“Welcome to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, custody room 43,” a disembodied feminine voice says. Harry recognises it as the same voice that was—will be—used throughout the ministry in 1996. “Do you need access to legal advice?”

Harry nods. “Yes please,” he says, still immobilised on the floor.

“One moment, please,” the voice says.

A few seconds later, a man appears within Harry’s vision and says, “Hello, Mr Smith. I will be your solicitor for your case. My name is Ptolemy Carrow. Now, you’ve been arrested on suspicion of Death Eater activity. How are you going to plead?”

“Not guilty,” Harry says without any hesitation—he’s not a Death Eater. _Remain calm, you’ll be fine_.

“How are you going to explain the Dark Mark?” Ptolemy asks with a raised eyebrow.

“I don’t have it,” Harry says simply. “Feel free to check.”

Ptolemy looks shocked, but does as instructed. He steps back after examining Harry’s bare forearms. His mouth is hanging open in a mystified gape.

“How on earth—why don’t you have it? You must have removed it!” Ptolemy cries.

“It’s because I’ve never had it!” Harry says. “I don’t think you _can_ remove it.”

Actually, Harry is pretty confident that he could remove the Dark Mark if he wanted to. He hasn’t spent much time studying the magic involved, but he has an hunch that it’s an interesting combination of different wards. He decides to _not_ mention this to the solicitor.

“Well—we’ll build your defence off of that, then. You don’t have the Dark Mark so you can’t be a Death Eater,” Ptolemy says. “Case closed, I suppose.”

“Is that enough?” Harry asks.

Ptolemy shrugs as if to say he doesn’t know. “Can’t be certain,” he says as if to make sure Harry understood the nonverbal gesture. Thoughtful. “But the only reason you were brought in was because your name keeps coming up when we ask the others for Death Eaters.”

“That’s because I was friends with Avery—and he got off several weeks ago because he was _imperiused_ ,” Harry points out.

Ptolemy nods. “And what about your relationship with Severus Snape?”

“I am in _a_ relationship with him,” Harry confirms. Realising that this implies something deeper than what is, Harry is quick to amend: “He’s just my flatmate. And he’s a Hogwarts professor, and Dumbledore would never hire a Death Eater.”

Ptolemy hums and nods again. “Well, I feel fairly confident. They’re not being very thorough, if I’m completely honest with you, since we have so many people to process. The court is overwhelmed, so we’re trying to process as many people as quickly as possible.”

“So they’re not being accurate?”

“Oh, they are. But they’re letting people through that probably shouldn’t be. Not—I don’t mean, _you_ of course—you’re not a Death Eater, so you’re obviously in here for the wrong reason,” Ptolemy says with a wink.

Ptolemy leaves a few minutes later, saying that it’s likely he will be called in to discuss his case with an auror in a couple hours. Until then, he is supposed to lay back— _think of England_ —immobilised.

Harry can’t help but feel furious for the ease in which his situation could be taken advantage of. He is supposedly a criminal, and yet here he is—immobile, unable to move, only able to speak, but that ability could be taken away from him in a heartbeat, if someone wanted to—his vulnerability is terrifying. For most people, this situation would be inescapable. For Harry, however, due to his skill in Dark Magic, this is only a temporary distraction that he finds himself allowing to occur—the likelihood of his conviction as a Death Eater would undoubtedly increase tenfold if he undid the spell that froze him to the cell floor.

It is this fury, Harry understands, that draw people to start revolutions, to start gathering in groups and causing chaos. But those revolutions, those groups, that chaos—somehow they fail to get off the ground, fail to gain traction—all until Voldemort’s crusade for a misguided cause that only sought to expand the inequalities inherent in their society instead of bridging the gaps. A crusade, yes, but in the wrong direction. But people saw a crusade, and they bought into the idea of a crusade, into the idea of change, into the idea that this time, _this time_ , things will be different. And things were different—but they weren’t good.

They weren’t good, but there was no reversing the course. They were already hurtling downward, and they found themselves attached to a madman. Some people bought in deeper into his rhetoric, going all in—and then there were others, who just wanted to survive. Who did their part to survive.

How were they going to be treated when put side-by-side the enthusiastic acolytes? Would there be any consideration given? Their acts and choices were on paper the same, but the intention and meaning behind them were entirely different, warranting completely different punishments.

Should someone who acted in defence of their life receive the same punishment as someone who acted with relish? In a perfect world, no—and that was the fundamental issue. Harry, by all means, if there was a way to prove his position as Voldemort’s apprentice beyond a shadow of a doubt, should be imprisoned in Azkaban—and wouldn’t that solve the problem where there is no recorded memory of a Harry Smith in the future? But without the damning mark on his arm, he can walk away free.

How can any true form of justice prevail in such a world? Where right is mixed with wrong and actions are bent and coercion is commonplace? Where the melding of souls is possible and the _Imperius_ curse is a completely valid defensive argument?

But it was true: Harry now had to figure out his path, understand what he was supposed to do for the next 16 years of his life. It had to be low profile—something where Harry would never run into mention of his name as a student. Preserve the timeline. Return to 1997. Reunite with his friends.

Harry is twenty-one years old now. He left his friends as 16 year olds; there’s now four/five years distance separating them—can they even be friends anymore? Could they possibly understand Harry, knowing that Harry—knowing that he has killing someone, killed eight people—oh, _god_ , eight people—and is Voldemort’s apprentice—and then still want to be his friend? Still trust him? Still want to be around him? Still want to see him and still care for him? Would they even understand? Understand that the horcrux overpowered him and then he became someone different—that Harry Potter _died_. That Harry Potter no longer exists, but this new person, this new being—this Harry Smith person—this new soul, this new spirit, this new entity is all that remains of their once beloved friend.

There’s a small— _no_ , that would be lying—there’s a large part of Harry that thinks they wouldn’t be able to accept him, entrenched in Dark Magic as he is, as dangerous and volatile as he is, as far gone as he is—there is no redemption from this betrayal, is there?

And as Harry lies there, in the Ministry holding cells, Harry comes to terms with the fact that although he wants to get back to 1997, that while he desperately wishes to find his friends once more, he finally accepts the fact that they wouldn’t recognise him anymore. He’s become someone entirely different. He graduated, with decent marks, he’s a Dark Wizard now, he’s—he’s not who he once was. And maybe he has to accept that. That his friends wouldn’t want to be his friend anymore, not with who he is today.

Not with the monster he has become. And, _god_ , he has become a monster. Even though he casts on illusions, his stomach no longer turns at the sight of the pretzel-maker spell; he no longer gags at death and torture and the smell of human waste and the stench of death. Desensitised, immoral—that’s who he is now.

Harry takes a deep breath. Regardless of what his friends will think of him—he will make it to 1997, and he will finish what needs to be done. He will kill Voldemort, fulfil the prophecy, and then he will be able to be at peace finally. Hopefully, at least. But his purpose will be over, and then maybe he can find some sort of sense in the unending cycle of day and night.

But in the meantime, from now until then? He needs to figure out what he’s going to do. If he makes it out of here alive, that is. If he manages to escape Azkaban, like Ptolemy promises.

Warding. It comes to him in a flash—it’s something he’s good at, it’s something he’s passionate about. He’s spent over two years learning about wards—albeit, Dark Magic wards. But that puts him in a good position to learn about the wards from a Light Magic practitioner.

That’s what he’ll do—warding wasn’t even on his radar before his apprenticeship, so it will be a perfect hiding spot. It will keep him busy during the year while Severus teaches. He can mantle wards on buildings—become a legal apprentice to a master warder and then—then he can gain some form of respectability, if things go well.

Harry’s anxiety continues to rise as time inches past. As an hour goes by, then three, then ten, Harry wonders if he will ever escape this holding cell. Have they forgotten him? Or have they already made a decision, and forgotten to tell him? Or is this his punishment?

It is the sudden _bang_ of the door slamming into the wall that shocks Harry out a sleep he didn’t even know he was in.

“Oops, my apologies—that door was lighter than the others,” an unfamiliar voice says. They haven’t come into Harry’s vision. Harry tries to move, but is unable to—either the initial petrification is still in place, or it has been reapplied without Harry noticing.

A cough from another figure.

“Anyways, we’ve looked over your material, Mr Smith. It looks like you’re free to go. We’re terribly sorry you got mixed up in all this. You don’t have a Dark Mark, and your story checks out. Like I said, you don’t have the Dark Mark, and your only relationship with a Death Eater was actually with Mr Dumbledore’s spy, so you’re clean as a whistle,” the voice says cheerily.

“Are whistles clean?” the second figure asks.

“I haven’t any idea,” the first person says. “But It certainly sounds nice.”

A noncommittal grunt, a whispered word, and then Harry is released from the spell _finally_. His limbs ache with being held in the same position for countless hours. People always forget that although it’s magically enforced, muscles still are in usage, but locked into position, causing severe pain later.

Harry struggles to sit up. He doesn’t recognise these two people. He massages his legs. “Thank you,” he says with a grateful nod.

The two figures smile, while the first one says, “Oh, you’re very welcome. Isn’t it just a wonderful time to be alive?”

Harry tries to smile, but he feels like it was more of a grimace due to the uncomfortable expression of the second individual, who looks mildly taken aback.

“Well, feel free to leave at any time. No fees to pay or papers to file!” The first says, clasping their hands together to swing them back and forth.

Harry nods, continuing to rub his legs.

They move to leave the room, but linger in the doorway. “Actually,” the second one says, “if you could leave right now, we’d appreciate that. We kind of need this room for another suspect.”

“Oh!” Harry says. “Sure, sure.” He stands up slowly, and then hobbles out of the room. “Do you have my wand?”

“We’ve it right here,” the second person says before presenting the wand with an excessive flourish.

“Thanks,” Harry says before taking it back. “I’ll just be on my way, then.”

“Oh, please do!”

“You sure I’m free to go?” Harry asks one last time before he apparates. This doesn’t _feel_ right, and he hasn’t seen Ptolemy yet.

“Yes,” they say in an exasperated union. “Go!”

Shrugging, Harry apparates away from the Ministry, back home, back to an uncertain future, where he stumbles into his bedroom, to fall deep into a restless sleep.


	9. The Reveal

It is early 1989. Eight years have passed, and Harry is well versed in the acceptable Light Magic used in public wards. For his private clients that are aware of his past, he willingly gives them the Dark Magic wards they crave. The magic comes easier. He performs it better, and it’s less forced. He’s a true master in this form of magic, and it pains Harry to admit it. He used to be adept at Light Magic, and while he’s passable, he is no longer a strong spellcaster in its domains. But present him with an equivalent Dark Magic spell? He is powerful, almost excessively so.

It caused challenges when Harry was starting his warding business. His Light Magic wards were pitiful, until finally an elder businessman named Michael Odell took pity on him and trained him until he was competent. Four years ago, Michael decided was Harry adequate enough for solo work.

“I know your reputation is rubbish,” Michael said at the time. “But whoever the Contortionist _really_ is will never cast Light Magic as well as you can.”

And so Harry accepted Michael’s honest trust with uneasy and guilty gratitude.

Because Michael is kind. He blatantly ignores the individual requests for Harry that came throughout his training from the obviously dark contingent of their society that Harry has always accepted without hesitation, when similar requests from other individuals always had Harry passing them along to Michael.

He’s grateful for the acceptance Michael freely gives him; it allows him to breathe easy, especially in these times where anything even remotely associated with Dark Magic is reviled. They never say anything about it—and Harry’s far too afraid to even mention it, but the knowledge is between them, hovering and present in the back of their minds in every conversation. Or at least it is in Harry’s mind. He’s not sure if that’s the case for Michael. He’s not sure if it ever was.

Severus hates teaching, and Harry can’t help but stifle laughter at the poor man’s misfortune. But Severus has healed from the devastation that tore him apart when Lily Potter died. She was Harry’s _mother_ —oh, god, should he have been upset about it? She died—his mother died—and Harry barely even blinked.

He didn’t know her, though. She’s more of an imaginary figure. Knowing her in reality, though, never actually registered. His mother was still some ethereal figure who was self-sacrificing, eternally kind, generous, good—someone who wasn’t human. This wasn’t possible, Harry knew, but if he didn’t think about it, then his childhood imagery of his mother wouldn’t shatter and he wouldn’t have to face the pain of realising that people are _people_ and people are imperfect.

Severus is visiting for the weekend, and he is unusually stressed. This is somewhat odd, since Severus has a remarkable talent for leaving work at work and coming home unburdened, unlike Harry.

“What’s going on?” Harry asks, hopping up to sit on the counter. Severus swipes a hand at him in discouragement. Harry bats it away playfully.

“Nothing,” Severus says with a confused tone.

“ _Something_ is. You’re not acting normally,” Harry says. “And it’s not as if I’ve forgotten your birthday or any of that, so you’re not upset with me, and you would’ve told me if it was a student or Dumbledore. So tell me what it is.”

Severus looks at Harry seriously. His mouth twists as if he were restraining a laugh before it goes completely blank. “Marry me,” he deadpans.

Harry is so shocked he almost falls off the counter.

“Not—not _now_ , of course, but sometime, in the future?” Severus insists, his eyes going comically wide, almost appearing terrified of Harry’s response.

“I don’t understand,” Harry says. “We’re not even dating.”

“I love you,” Severus says earnestly, clasping his hands together like in prayer. “We’ve lived together for years and I love you, and I want to marry you. Please, will you marry me?”

“Oh my god,” Harry says, dumbfounded. “Am I in an alternate universe? I wasn’t expecting that. And we only live together in the summer.”

“Is that a no?” Severus asks in a high-pitch, anxiety seeping into his normally calm and steady voice.

“Yes! No! Oh, god, we’re not even dating! We broke up!” Harry says frantically. “And you hardly even know me!”

“So what!? And of course I know you!” Severus says, pompously folding his arms across his chest. “I’ve lived with you for years—I _know_ you. I’ve seen you cry, and bleed, and I know what you do when you’re scared and happy—I know you, Harry.”

“But you don’t know about my past!”

“Fuck your past!” Severus says, stomping his foot and putting his hands on his hips. “If you’re going to say no, then you should’ve ended this relationship months ago to save us this embarrassment.”

Harry almost thinks Severus is snickering—but _no_ , that can’t be—he’s probably crying.

“What relationship? Any we had I ended years ago! Are you _drunk_? Severus—I can’t—it’s just—” Harry grabs his hair in a frantic gesture. He bends over in frustration. He’s not even _dating_ the man—but the point is the same— _he’s not supposed to be here, in this time_ —

“It’s just what?” Severus says with his nose in the air. “Just what, Harry?”

“I’m a time-traveller,” Harry spits out, then clasps his hands over his mouth, closing his eyes, and bracing himself as if he is about to be hit.

Severus is so stunned that he can only stare at Harry, flabbergasted. “A what?”

“Time-traveller?” Harry says, peeking out from behind his hands. “Surprise?”

“What the fuck,” Severus says, dropping any and all pretenses. “When are you from?”

“1997,” Harry says.

“And—mother of Merlin—you’ve already been _born_!” Severus says, doing the math. “You were 16 when you arrived and—and that’s only eight years away—”

Harry nods. “I know,” he says.

“Who are you?” Severus says in horror.

“I’m Harry Smith,” Harry says. “Honestly, and completely—I am Harry Smith.”

“Don’t be smart with me—who _were_ you?”

“You won’t be happy with me,” Harry says.

“I’m not happy with you _now_ , Harry—you lied to me for the past decade. Your parents probably weren’t even _dead_ and you probably thought you were having a grand time pulling all of our legs,” Severus says seriously, narrowing his eyes. “Who were you?”

“I never lied to you,” Harry says. “As far as I can remember, at least,” he amends. “But my birth name was Harry Potter.”

And then Severus can only stare at Harry Smith with absolute no expression on his face—Harry is terrified he’s going to start screaming and break things, or that he is going to cry or fight him or punch him, or just turn around and leave, and oh, for god’s sake, just _react_ already.

But what Harry does not expect Severus to do is laugh. Hysterical laughter, so much laughter that tears come to his eyes, and he has to double in half and he slides to the floor because he can’t breathe anymore.

“I’m not joking!” Harry says indignantly.

Severus nods, unable to speak through his laughter. “It’s funny—because you’re a baby—and the guy—who _killed_ your parents—you ended up having an apprenticeship with him?”

It is Harry’s turn to stare at Severus helplessly. “Compartmentalisation?”

“You are so messed up,” Severus says, finally getting a hold of himself. “It is so wrong, but it’s also hilarious. How the fuck did you end up in that situation anyways? You obviously hate the guy—I’ve heard you talk about him.”

Harry shrugs. “It was complicated.” And so Harry tells him about how he wasn’t truly in his right mind when he went to Voldemort, that he was a horcrux, that the very same horcrux was partially possessing him, but that in the process of merging it with the original soul of Harry Potter, a new soul was created.

“That’s why I’m honestly able to call myself Harry Smith. Any magical test you do will show you that—my magic is Harry Smith. My body is still Harry Potter’s.”

“At least you’re not dead? That would’ve been bad—if the horcrux overtook you completely, or overpowered the part that was Harry Potter so you became a miniature Dark Lord.”

“You’re right, but—it’s still terrifying to think about how close it was to that. How close I was to completely losing myself,” Harry admits. Severus shakes his head in disbelief.

“At least he’s dead,” Severus says. “You don’t ever have to worry about him again.”

“Yeah,” Harry says, rubbing his neck. “That’s the thing. He’s not actually dead. He’s made multiple horcruxes.”

Severus stares at Harry. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

Harry shakes his head. “I’m not,” he says.

“Dumbledore said he wasn’t dead,” Severus says, “but I never want to believe a thing he says. Are you _sure_?”

Harry nods. “Completely.”

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” Severus says, straightening abruptly. “We need to destroy them!”

“It wasn’t relevant at the time—”

“Wasn’t relevant?” Severus fumes. “ _Make_ it relevant then, you bloody fool!”

“Okay, okay,” Harry says, raising his hands in an attempt to appease Severus. “Here, let me tell what I know so far about them.”

“Don’t leave a damn thing out,” Severus says, pointing his finger at Harry’s chest.

“There’s a lot of them,” Harry says. “About seven. I think I know what six of them are, and I’m not sure if one of them even is made yet.”

“Then let’s destroy them,” Severus says. “We can prevent him from coming back at all.”

“We can’t! I ended up destroying one when I was twelve—it would destroy the timeline! I would probably vanish!”

“Fuck the timeline!” Severus says. “It doesn’t matter. You’re here now, and you’ve probably changed a whole bunch of things. Do you even remember seeing yourself when you were a kid?”

“No, I don’t,” Harry says. “But I’ve taken care of that, by working where I do.”

“Either way, you’re here, and you’re not going to somehow vanish. It doesn’t work like that,” Severus says.

“How would you know?” Harry asks.

“It doesn’t matter,” Severus says. “We should destroy them _now_.”

“We’ll destroy the ones that aren’t destroyed in the future, for now at least, okay?” Harry says. “I don’t want to _disintegrate_ if you’re wrong.”

“Fine,” Severus says. “Then what _can_ you tell me?”

“There’s a locket, Salazar Slytherin’s locket,” Harry says, ticking off them on his fingers as he speaks. “Hufflepuff’s cup—”

“Your favourite!”

“—shut up! Something that belongs to Ravenclaw or Gryffindor, we weren’t sure which, a ring, and then one that I don’t think he’s made yet.”

“What is it?” Severus asks.

“It was his snake, Nagini. But he didn’t have her before he died, and we can’t kill her yet because I saw her in the 90s,” Harry emphasises.

“You’re going to seriously not try and kill him now?” Severus asks, confused. “Do you feel bad because he was your mentor?”

“Are you kidding? I don’t feel bad at all,” Harry says, looking at Severus in shock. “I learned all I could from him, and now I want him deader than a door knob.”

Severus blinks slowly. “You’re definitely _not_ a Hufflepuff in your time,” he says. “You’re a Slytherin, aren’t you? I can’t believe you actually were sorted into Hufflepuff, actually.”

“I wanted to get back to my friends, okay?” Harry says defensively, deciding to not tell Severus the truth about his sorting.

“Oh, how sweet,” Severus says with mock disgust.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Harry says, running his hand through his hair. “But we can look for those three now, and then we can destroy them.”

“Do you even know where they are?” Severus asks.

“Not a clue, actually,” Harry says. “I know he gave one to the Malfoys.”

Severus perks up. “Then let’s go get it!”

“We can’t, Sev!” Harry says. “That’s the one I deal with when I’m twelve!”

“Then let’s just go make sure he actually has it, okay? He probably doesn’t know what it is. He doesn’t want the Dark Lord back any more than you do, okay?” Severus says.

“I still find that hard to believe,” Harry says grumpily. It was actually true, though. Due to Severus’s familiarity with Lucius Malfoy, Harry has spent far too much time in Malfoy Manor. Lucius apparently expressed his relief that Voldemort was gone—to Severus, of course, not to Harry; for some reason, no one really trusted Harry with their secrets.

“Then let’s go see him tonight,” Severus says. “Make sure it’s there. He can tell you what he thinks.”

“Might as well invite the whole crew,” Harry says sarcastically.

“That’s not a bad idea,” Severus muses.

“No! No, that’s a horrible idea!” Harry says frantically.

“Oh, fine. But let’s go then. No time like the present,” Severus says. He sweeps around the room, gathering his coat and slipping on his shoes.

“You can’t expect me to forget that you actually asked me to _marry you_ ,” Harry says without moving.

“And you can’t expect me to believe that you _bought_ that act?” Severus snorts. “Why would I want to marry _you_?” Severus gives a dismissive wave. “I’m bisexual, but that doesn’t mean I want to jump everyone I see. I’m quite happy alone. Besides, I just needed you to _react_. You’ve been completely stagnant for months now.”

“That’s not the right way to do it!”

Severus shrugs. “It was the first thing I thought of, and it was hilarious to watch you panic.” Severus finishes tying his laces. “By the way, what kind of noodling did you even come here by? Sweet potato, or cucumber noodling?”

“How the fuck does everyone know about the noodles!” Harry exclaims.

“Welcome to our home, Severus, Harry,” Lucius says. “Please, make yourself comfortable.” Lucius Malfoy sits next to Narcissa Malfoy, and a nine-year-old and adorably cute Draco Malfoy is perched on Narcissa’s lap.

Harry makes a silly face at Draco, who looks askance at him as if Harry were a barbarian. Harry smiles. Some people never change.

“What can we do for you?” Narcissa says, pushing Draco out of the room with a whispered _go play upstairs_ , which prompts the little boy to run out of the room.

“Yeah,” Harry starts stupidly. “Do you want the Dark Lord to return?”

“Excuse me?” Lucius says, his eyes widening. He casts a frantic look at Severus, who casts him a sly grin and nods.

“You can trust him, Lou,” Severus says.

“But he was _his_ apprentice!” Lucius hisses under his breath.

“I can hear you,” Harry says. He looks at Narcissa and smiles blandly. “But you’re right, I was his apprentice, but that doesn’t mean I don’t hate the man and want him to stay dead.”

Lucius’s whispered words suddenly stop as he turns to look at Harry with a mixture of horror and awe. “Are you serious?”

“Deadly,” Harry says. “I never liked the man—and the whole reason I ended up his apprentice was honestly an accident. And you can’t really walk away from the guy if you want to stay alive.”

“How _did_ you, if you don’t mind me asking?” Narcissa asks.

Harry smiles out of the corner of his mouth. “I think he honestly trusted me, as terrifying as that is to say.”

“And now you’re going to betray him,” Narcissa says. “Just like that.”

“Just like that,” Harry says, his smile never leaving his face.

“You were a Hufflepuff in school, right?” Narcissa says, raising her eyebrow.

“He never had _my_ loyalty,” Harry says fervently. “And I know how to end him permanently.”

“We’re listening,” Lucius says nervously, still ill at ease.

“I want to know if you feel the same,” Harry says as he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees and stares at Lucius.

“I believed in the Dark Lord when I first met him,” Lucius says. “But I did not believe in the monster he was at the end.”

“Can you accept that he can never return to sanity again?” Harry asks.

Lucius looks at Narcissa. Narcissa looks at him as if to say _this is your decision_ , _this is your choice_. Lucius takes a deep breath. “I can.”

Harry nods. “I know how to end him permanently. And I could use your help.”

“What can we do?” Narcissa asks. For the first time, a tentative smile appears on her face.

Harry looks at Severus before answering. “He’s made horcruxes,” Harry says. Narcissa has a blank look on her face. She doesn’t recognise the term, but the tightening of Lucius’s lips makes Harry think he might be familiar.

“They’re tying him to mortality,” Harry explains. “Each object has a piece of his soul in it. If we destroy the object, we destroy the soul housed within.”

Narcissa grimaces. “But what objects could he even use? Rocks? Twigs? Letters, quills, books?”

“Books?” Lucius repeats before straightening up, turning deathly pale. He leaves the room without another word.

Narcissa watches him go with a confused expression. Severus looks at Harry as if he has the answers.

Lucius returns only a few moments later with a book held in a handkerchief. He drops it onto the coffee table in disgust. “I never knew what this was until now. It’s one of those—and I’ve had it in my house for over a decade now.”

The handkerchief opens to reveal an unassuming diary with the words _T. M. Riddle_ embossed.

Harry nods solemnly. “That’s a horcrux. His first, in fact.”

“Then let’s destroy it first,” Lucius says eagerly. “I want this out of my home.”

But Harry hesitates—“We can’t yet,” he says.

Lucius stares at Harry, dumbfounded. “Why not?”

“You will get rid of that in 1992,” Harry says regretfully.

“But I want it gone _now_!” Lucius says angrily. “I don’t want this around my son!”

Narcissa stares at Harry with bitter eyes. “Why do you know this?”

A glance to Severus only tells Harry that this is his burden to share.

“I’m so sorry, but I can’t tell you,” Harry says. “I would destroy it if I had any other choice.”

Lucius sits and huffs. “Fine,” he says. He picks up the diary and then returns the book to wherever it came from.

It takes him a significantly longer time to return this time. “I put up some serious wards this time,” Lucius says. “Draco can’t find that.”

They all nod.

“Well then,” Lucius says. “Tell us about the others.”

“There’s a ring, Hufflepuff’s cup, Slytherin’s locket, the diary,” he says, gesturing toward the book that used to be in front of them. “Something of either Ravenclaw’s or Gryffindor and the kid, and—”

“A _child_?” Narcissa interrupts. “He did this to a _child_?”

“It’s taken care of,” Harry says. “I promise you, it’s taken care of, and the child is still alive.”

Lucius looks at Harry doubtfully. “You just told us that to remove a horcrux we have to destroy its host.”

“It’s taken care of,” Harry repeats, staring Lucius down. Lucius, terrified of Harry’s anger—he _was_ the Dark Lord’s apprentice—the _Contortionist_ —no matter how willing—nods quickly.

“So that leaves us with four,” Narcissa says after waiting several moments. “But we can’t destroy—” she gestures wildly at the table where the diary sat moments earlier. “— _that_ one, so what do we even do?”

“And that’s why we’re here,” Severus finally says. “We need help.”

“Well—let’s figure out what the unknown object is, or at least think about it?” Narcissa suggests.

“What did Ravenclaw or Gryffindor even own?” Lucius says. Severus pipes up and suggests something about a sword.

Harry, however, is oblivious to the conversation because he too is staring—at the table, but actually is engaged in a serious battle within himself.

_Do I destroy the diary now?_

The timeline—this whole stupid _timeline_. To preserve or not to preserve. Harry laughs at himself momentarily but his laughter quickly dies as he remembers what he’s trying to figure out. Is he going to throw everything to the wind and finally decide to cut the cords of his future loose?

_But goddamn, why couldn’t he have decided this_ before _his parents died?_

It doesn’t matter anymore—it doesn’t matter anymore, what matters is that he has the opportunity standing right in his face— _right in his face_ —and if he doesn’t take it then he is a coward. A selfish coward, worse than Pettigrew.

And so Harry decides. _Fuck the timeline._

“You know what,” Harry says suddenly, interrupting Narcissa. “Screw it all, let’s destroy the diary now.”

Severus _beams_.

Lucius sighs in relief. “Thank Merlin—you have no idea how relieved I am to hear you say that. Let me go get it—it might be a while, I have to undo all of those wards.”

“Do you want me to help?” Harry asks.

Lucius hesitates, but nods. “Yes, that would be useful.” Harry leaves Severus with Narcissa, and follows Lucius into a room with a few bookshelves.

“This is the sitting room,” Lucius says by way of introduction. The room is overwhelmingly posh—the furniture appears to be ancient and wildly uncomfortable. The delicate figurines on the side table seem to emit light in addition to the gaudy chandelier. “We bring guests we don’t like in here, since it’s uncomfortable. It makes them not want to stay long.”

“It’s not kept in here, though,” Harry says. He can’t sense any warding in this room, not a single hint of either Dark or Light Magic.

“You’re right,” Lucius says. “It’s not here. I want to know if you’re really trustworthy. I need to be able to _trust_ you, and Severus was glaring at me whenever I wanted to ask questions.”

“That’s fine,” Harry says cautiously. “What do you want to know?”

“Why are you doing this?” Lucius asks. He hurriedly continues, “The Dark Lord would give you the world—we all saw the way he looked at you, the way he allowed you to stand separate from the Death Eaters, the way he never gave you a Dark Mark. Why do you want to destroy him, when you are his closest ally?”

“He killed my family,” Harry says slowly. “He’s killed hundreds of people, for no good reason. He’s a murderer. He forced me to kill seven people under the _Imperius_ curse. I entered into an apprenticeship with the man because he forced my hand. All and any affection he has for me is purely one-sided.”

“Then why don’t you try to take advantage of the position he’s given you? You could take charge of all of us! We would all follow you,” Lucius insists.

“I don’t want that,” Harry says. “I disagree with everything he stands for. Muggleborns should be allowed to live; Muggles are good; blood purity is unimportant. The only reason why I stayed his apprentice was because I took advantage of his knowledge of Dark Magic. If I could have found another teacher, I would have.”

“So you stayed—just for the magic?” Lucius asks disbelievingly.

“Just for the magic,” Harry repeats. “I know it sounds foolish, but that’s honestly why. I wanted to learn—I had the opportunity—and now I am taking the opportunity to destroy a madman, and bring some permanence to this tentative peace we have.”

Lucius stands there for a few seconds. “But you went on the raids,” he says.

“I did,” Harry says carefully. “But I never killed a single person. I used illusions. Dark Magic illusions—it left the feeling of serious Dark Magic, but no one was harmed by my hand on those raids.”

“No one can cast illusions that well,” Lucius scoffs.

Harry raises an eyebrow. “Why do you think _I_ was the apprentice? Because of my sense of humour?” Lucius stills his sceptical face. “It was because I was powerful, Lucius. As powerful, if not more powerful, than the man himself.”

Lucius shook his head. “He would never have let you go.”

“And that’s why I stayed,” Harry says. “He wanted to convert me to his cause—for the entire time I was with him, he tried to make me see his way. He found it fun.” Harry wrinkles his nose. “It wasn’t. But that’s why I was allowed only a peripheral role in the war—I was powerful enough that he wanted me at least neutralised if not on his side. And so I took advantage of my position. I learned his secrets—and now I can use them.”

“Why are you only now coming forward with this information?” Lucius asks.

“It was time,” Harry says blankly.

“That’s not an answer,” Lucius points out.

He’s right, of course. There’s no reason why Harry shouldn’t have destroyed most of the horcruxes before now. But he was stuck in his stupidity of _preserve the timeline_ —how foolish, _god_ , how foolish.

“Extenuating circumstances,” Harry waves a hand. “Where’s the diary so we can destroy it? I want to do this today.”

_The future will change today_ , Harry thinks.

And so Lucius leads him out of the uncomfortable sitting room and a few doors down into a private office—“My office, no one is allowed in”—and then Harry can sense the weight of the wards.

“Just behind these,” Lucius says, gesturing toward the shelf where Harry can clearly see the black book.

Harry takes a deep breath. This is it. This is the moment and there is no return from this—after he takes these wards down, there’s no time for second guessing anymore. After these wards are down, there’s no more time for foolish waiting around. It’s time for action, for doing, for saving this bloody world.

That may be a bit dramatic, but Harry can’t bring himself to think otherwise.

He raises his wand, the word on the tip of his tongue. He knows a spell that will bring the entire sequence down at once—it’s one of his favourite spells, the eliminator spell, Harry calls it.

And then there is a blaring sound that echoes in their ears—a siren whistling and Harry clasps his hands over his ears, looks to Lucius only to find him wide-eyed and terrified, and shouts, “What’s going on?”

“Aurors,” Lucius shouts back. “They’re raiding. You have to go!”

Harry throws his single most complicated Dark Magic ward onto the diary, _it can’t be found now, it just can’t_ , and runs out of the room on Lucius’s heels.

It seems Narcissa told Severus the same information, because as soon as they leave the hallway, Severus is there, reaching for Harry’s hand, and then they’re vanishing, twisting into space _—destination, deliberation, determination_ —and they’re gone.


	10. Fears

They are told not to visit Malfoy Manor anytime soon—the Aurors are keeping a close eye on any visitors, and even though Harry was let off without any trouble, he’s a person of interest, especially when seen with people who are known ex-Voldemort supporters. Even if they were cleared of all wrong-doing as well.

But Harry never told them how to destroy the diary, and Lucius is unable to dismantle the final ward Harry placed.

 _It will take me some time to break it,_ Lucius writes. _But I’m positive I can manage eventually. Once I do, I will inform you as soon as possible._

Harry breaks all of their dishes in his anger. Severus tries to calm him down, but nothing works until he suggests going after another horcrux.

“The ring,” Harry says. “It’s in the shack. Come with me, please.”

“I can’t,” Severus says. “I have to go to Hogwarts tomorrow—term starts in a few weeks. We’re learning who the new defence teacher will be. I’ll let you know how it goes when I’m back home.”

“I’ll go tomorrow then, and you can tell me who they are when I get back,” Harry says.

The next morning, Harry arrives at the Gaunt shack. He knocks on the door and waits for a response.

There is none.

Then it hits Harry: _no one lives here_.

Feeling like an idiot, he goes inside hesitantly. He remembers hearing about Dumbledore’s difficulty in coming here, about the curse on the ring—but for some reason, he’s not sensing any of it. Could it be because of the soul merging?

Or—or are there just _no wards_? Is the ring completely unprotected? Surely not.

He searches and searches. He can’t remember where Dumbledore said the ring was kept, if he even said so at all. It happened years ago. It’s not under any of the furniture. Harry begins to pull up the floorboards, one by one, and then fixes them with an easy _reparo_.

Finally, after several hours of searching—the sun is close to setting—Harry finds the ring. He takes a deep breath mixed with relief and exhaustion. But just when he stretches out his hand to reach for it—

A scream. Harry whips around and in the same motion covers the hiding place, all while screaming as well.

It’s five Muggle children. They’re _exploring_. A wave of painful nostalgia—for a childhood Harry can’t relate to—but he can imagine the fun they must have been having. But the nostalgia passes quickly when Harry finally registers that they are still screaming. Finally, they get the courage to run away. Harry takes a quick glance at himself in complete confusion. Upon seeing that he is dressed completely normally, he assumes the Muggle children saw something he didn’t, and so he too runs out of the shack.

He must have activated a ward somehow that released a monster that was on the ceiling or something; Harry can’t be sure.

The children are gone when Harry is outside the shack, but he can still hear them, in the distance. They stomp loudly through the woods, snapping of leaves and twigs beneath their boots.

And then they stop—and then the sounds start to become louder, and Harry realises they’re turning around—they’re coming back—and Harry swears under his breath because he can’t risk the kids getting hurt in these wards.

He quickly throws wards over the building. They should keep any Muggles away. They’re easily breakable—just mild deterrents to any wizard—nothing like the ward he cast on the book—but they will work for the time being, and then he goes back into the shack cautiously, his wand raising.

Something is here, he’s sure of it, to cause the Muggle children to scream like that—but they were just children, and he’s a competent wizard; by some standards, he’s an _extremely_ competent wizard, so he really shouldn’t have had the irrational response to scream and run away as well.

Grateful no one was there to see his embarrassment, Harry is about to return to the ring when he glances at his watch. He’s lost a lot of time due to the Muggle children—Severus is likely to return home any second now, and Harry honestly is still rather on edge, despite his rational mind telling him there is nothing to be afraid of.

Giving himself a shake to try and get his mind back in order, Harry decides he’ll come back another day. He can’t afford to make mistakes here—the image of Dumbledore’s hand vividly crosses his memories despite their age, and so he decides he’ll set up some more wards, easy for him to dismantle, over the ring, to protect it from any unlucky travellers, and then return home.

It only takes him an hour—and in that hour, he’s received a Patronus from Severus—it’s a doe, something Harry still can’t quite reconcile because ever since the soul merging, his Patronus has been a Japanese serow—no longer the salamander it was beforehand when the horcrux was in charge—an animal that looks like a cross between a goat and an antelope—and Harry can only assume that it’s a doe because of his mother, which makes him immensely uncomfortable, because—because he still believes that Severus hasn’t let her go yet—that he still loves a dead woman, enough to have immortalised her unintentionally in a Patronus.

But the doe arrives, and summons Harry home, so Harry finishes up his last ward; a final protective piece. Then he turns on his heel and he apparates back to their shared flat.

Severus is standing there with a frown—an expression that is becoming all too common on his face these days—but it lightens into a small smile when he sees Harry.

“I am proud of you,” Severus starts after embracing Harry in greetings. “I know you were afraid, but your decision to decide to change the future and take control of this time makes me so proud. I’ll be blunt, and tell you that I thought your choice to not try and fix the timeline was frankly stupid.”

Harry twitches a corner of his mouth in a half smile. “Yeah,” he says half-heartedly. “It was pretty dumb. I don’t know why I felt I needed to preserve the timeline so badly—it was such a waste of time. I could’ve been finished by now if I decided this years ago.”

Severus shrugs. “At least you can finish now,” he says.

“Tell me about the new Hogwarts teacher,” Harry says, pulling Severus into the kitchen.

“Albus couldn’t find anyone, so he had to contact the Ministry yesterday. They told us today they’re going to send in someone named Dolores Umbridge if he can’t find someone by the end of the week,” Severus says with a shrug, handing Harry a tea cup.

Harry drops the cup he’s just been handed and it shatters upon the floor. “Did you just say _Dolores Umbridge_?”

Severus looks at Harry carefully. “Yeah,” he says. “Do you know her?”

Harry chokes out a laugh. “Oh, do I,” he says, clenching his fist. _I must not tell lies._

“Can you tell me anything?” Severus says cautiously. “Or?”

Harry shakes his head. “No—just tell Albus I’m teaching defence this year,” he says. “Umbridge cannot be allowed to teach.”

Severus raises his eyebrows in shock. “You’re teaching Defence _Against_ the Dark Arts?”

“My best subject,” Harry says indignantly. “I got an O.”

Severus rolls his eyes. “Sure, but you’re the poster boy for _using_ the Dark Arts,” he says.

“Well, from the sound of it, it’s either me, or Umbridge, and I’ll tell you right now,” Harry points his finger in a faux-threatening manner. “You want me.”

Severus raises his hands in mock fear. “You’ve got me,” he drawls. “I’ll let Albus know. You realise he’s not going to be very happy about this? He doesn’t trust you a single bit?”

Harry shrugs. “That’s not what’s important here,” he says. “I’m not trying to preserve the timeline anymore, so this is what’s happening.”

“You’re going to hate it,” Severus says, crossing his arms.

“I’ll have you know I’ve extensive experiencing in teaching the subject before,” Harry says pompously, throwing his nose into the air. “Hate it, I shan’t!”

Severus rolls his eyes. “You’re crazy,” he says with a fond smile.

Later that week, Severus takes Harry with him to Hogwarts, where Harry is dropped off at the Gargoyle statue before Severus _swoops_ away to his dungeon office— _it’s quieter down there,_ Severus justified when Harry questioned his sanity.

Harry glares at the gargoyle, daring it to move. Luckily, Albus Dumbledore seems to have been expecting Harry, so the gargoyle huffs and moves aside and lets Harry up the stairs.

“Mr Smith,” Dumbledore says calmly. “Severus tells me you’re applying for the Defence post.”

“I am,” Harry says. “And you should highly consider me over the Ministry woman.”

“Ms Umbridge?” Dumbledore says, titling his head down so he can look at Harry over his half-moon spectacles. “She does have the necessary qualifications.”

“As do I,” Harry says, “in addition to teaching experience.”

“And what experience do you have?”

“I taught a group of students in my 5th year,” Harry says. “Before the noodling.”

Dumbledore raises his eyebrows. “I can’t believe I’d forgotten you were noodled! Well then, that puts things into a new light. You certainly could teach them how to avoid the process.”

Harry blinks. His conversations with Dumbledore never seem to go how he intends them. “I’m not sure how I could do that,” he points out.

“Codswallop! Of course you can!You’ve noodled before so there is no question that you can teach them how to avoid it. I have a feeling that this group of students are in dire need of learning this vital information.” Dumbledore nods seriously. “You’re hired! You start immediately!”

“But don’t you need to check my background? Or my credentials? Make sure I’m not a child molester, at the minimum? References?” Harry says frantically. There’s no way someone could get hired this easily to a boarding school, of all places.

“What, do you really think that I, Albus Dumbledore, would need such silly and inconsequential information that would be completely necessary and required by anyone’s standards in order to protect the students within this castle from complete incompetents or sexual predators? It’s not just luck that we’ve had such good teachers and such a good record!”

“But our teacher in my 7th year was horrid—”

“Codswallop!” Dumbledore says brightly. “They had credentials—although they never showed me them, of course, I trusted them—and every reference he gave—which I never checked—would have undoubtedly praised the man.”

“So you’re saying that you never check up on anything about your professors?” Harry says, aghast.

Dumbledore breaks into a hearty laugh. “Oh, my dear boy!” Dumbledore chokes through his laughter. “It was merely a joke—of _course_ I need that information. What do you think we are here at Hogwarts? Some rotten school that just hires anyone off the street? I am dearly sorry about your seventh year; the man truly was incompetent, but his rehearsal lesson went smoothly enough that I was thoroughly duped.”

Harry just stares at the man blankly. “Wait—you were _joking_?”

Dumbledore looks shocked. “Dear Merlin, did you actually believe me? Of _course_ all of our teachers are qualified and put through a rigorous qualification process that includes thorough background checks and criminal record examinations.”

“Oh,” Harry says dumbly.

“We’ll have to do the same with you,” Dumbledore says quickly. “I admit that I did not like Ms Umbridge’s teaching style, and since we’ve little time to complete these tasks, you can present your teaching practical immediately.”

“Wait—immediately?” Harry says.

“Immediately. Teachers have to be able to adapt to unexpected situations. Please begin at any time, preferably immediately,” Dumbledore says.

Harry’s jaw drops, but he closes it quickly, and then he sits up straighter in his chair. “What level student are you, Mr Dumbledore?”

“A 3rd year, Professor Smith,” Dumbledore says in an awful mimicry of a prepubescent child.

“Today I will teach you about Boggarts,” Harry says, his mind flashing back to the lesson taught by Professor Lupin all those years ago.

“What are Boggarts?” Dumbledore squeaks. Harry has to restrain a laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of the voice.

“Boggarts are magical creatures, which adapt to take on the form of whatever it is that you fear most,” Harry says. “Do you happen to have one nearby, Headmaster?”

“We are fortunate enough to have an infestation only a few floors below,” Dumbledore responds in his regular tone. “Follow me, so our lesson can resume.”

“Thank you,” Harry says.

Harry follows Dumbledore into the classroom where there is a shaking cupboard in the corner that Harry assumes is the current home of the Boggart.

“In order to combat Boggarts,” Harry says, “You must first disable them so that they no longer are scary. You can do this by casting the _Riddikulus_ spell. _This_ is the wand motion, please, everyone do it with me.”

Harry waits several moment and watches Albus Dumbledore purposefully flub the wand motion. Harry walks over to Dumbledore and suggests a few tips to improve the motion. A few tries later, Harry gives Dumbledore two house points—“Excellent job. Two points to Dumbledore”—and returns to the front of the imaginary group.

“Now the incantation is _Riddikulus_ —yes that’s right imaginary person, two points to you. Other imaginary person, remember it is pronounced _Ri-di-KULL-lis_.”

Dumbledore does not make any faux mistakes with the pronunciation, so Harry proceeds. “Now, I understand if you do not want to battle the Boggart in front of the class. Your worst fears are very scary and private. In order to make sure that none of you are traumatised by having your fears exposed in front of everyone your age, everyone will be getting the chance to do this individually. Their fear will be completely blocked from sight, but when they succeed, a funny image will project in its place to everyone that has not cast the spell,” Harry explains.

Dumbledore raises his hand, and Harry calls on him. “Headmaster here, this is extremely innovative. What spell are you using?”

“It’s a personal spell,” Harry fibs. By saying this, both Dumbledore and Harry are allowing themselves to ignore the fact that this spell is in fact a Dark Magic spell. Dumbledore narrows his eyes slightly, so Harry is quick to add, “Only slightly personal.”

This seems to ease the tension between the Headmaster’s eyes, so he nods, and then reassumes his child person by saying in a high voice, “What about you?”

“I will be _not_ be seeing your worst fear, but will be seeing an obscured image. This is so I can tell if you are struggling and need help, but will not give me the details of what your fear is,” Harry responds smoothly. “It is also only a slightly personal spell,” Harry adds. Dumbledore nods.

“I will go first, in front of everyone, so you will know what to expect,” Harry says.

Harry is actually nervous. He’s desperately hoping his worst fear is still a Dementor—but he has an uncanny feeling that it’s not.

He was right. What comes out of the closet is actually a version of himself, but Harry immediately knows that the other version is the version where the horcrux was stronger than Harry’s soul and overpowered it in the merging. The red eyes—the way he holds his wand—the hair—and that _smile_. The Boggart Harry takes a step forward and raises his wand and points it at Dumbledore, and Harry instantly knows that he is about to cast the Killing Curse, and Harry is—the Boggart Harry’s mouth is forming the shape of the _Avada—_ Harry shudders while raising his wand. He firmly says, “ _Riddikulus_.”

The Boggart Harry suddenly becomes dressed in drag, Harry cracks a half-hearted smile— _but the Boggart doesn’t stop_. Just as the Boggart is about to finish the _Kedavra_ in the Killing Curse, Harry casts the _Riddikulus_ again, this time nonverbally, without his wand despite him holding it—and the Boggart transforms into a tiny bobblehead doll. Harry takes a deep breath, then turns to Dumbledore and tries to smile.

“And that’s how it’s done,” he says weakly. Dumbledore is completely pasty white out of shock. “Would you like to give a try?” Harry asks, feeling faint.

Dumbledore turns to look at Harry, glances over him once and sees the exhaustion and cold sweat beginning to appear at his hairline, and then nods once. “I shall,” Headmaster Albus Dumbledore says.

“Would you like the privacy shield?” Harry offers.

Dumbledore shakes his head once. Only slightly surprised, Harry steps aside, to allow Dumbledore to take his place.

It only takes a few seconds for the Boggart to take shape. And to Harry’s eternal wonder—the Boggart takes the form of Albus Dumbledore. A younger version, but one that looks almost the same except for the crazed look in his eyes, and the cloak over his shoulders— _the_ cloak; _Harry’s_ cloak. What on earth—and then the Boggart Dumbledore begins to speak, “It was for the Greater Good—just accept that it was _you_ who did it—Gellert is waiting—”

The Boggart stops midsentence and begins to sing an opera, before it disappears.

“I’ve had more practice with mine, than you have, it seems,” Dumbledore says, before turning to face a shell-shocked Harry.

“You seem surprised,” Dumbledore continues. “But I find it to be a sign of a good man to be afraid of the version of himself doing evil. With great power comes with great responsibility.

“Alas,” Dumbledore says, wiping his brow with a handkerchief from his pocket. “We of the Light may find ourselves like Damocles, beneath the sword of King Dionysus. There is danger in power, but power is needed to do good.”

“We of the _Right_ ,” Harry corrects stubbornly. “You cannot fool yourself into thinking I am a Light wizard.”

Dumbledore sighs heavily. “That is my sole reservation. You, my friend, lie on a dangerous precipice. The Dark will lead you into incomprehensible danger, and then you may find yourself no better than Lord Voldemort himself.”

Harry shakes his head. “That’s not true,” he insists. “The Dark is not dangerous—it can be _good_. The sun always sets; the moon always rises. Both are necessary; both are good.”

“Your analogy, I fear, fights against you—the night is when we cannot see—we are helpless to the creatures that roam the night,” Dumbledore says.

“And the sun blinds anyone who stares at it,” Harry retorts, folding his arms. “Analogies have flaws—but I won’t teach anyone Dark Magic if that appeases you. But I will continue to use it personally.”

“I would prefer you use spells that are Light Magic,” Dumbledore says.

“I know you would,” Harry says. “But I don’t know them; I’m not skilled in Light Magic. I am in Dark Magic; I can _sense_ Dark Magic, it’s who I am. Even in Light Magic, I excel in the so-called ‘dimmer’ Light topics—such as potions, and defence. But transfiguration and charms? I’m dreadful.”

“You’re not dreadful,” Dumbledore corrects. “You scored well on your NEWTs, if I recall correctly.”

“Fair enough,” Harry says with a sigh. “What do I need to sign so you can stalk every aspect of my life?”

“Only a few things,” Dumbledore says, gladly encouraging the change of subject, and then leads him back to his office.

And so Harry teaches a year of Defence against the Dark Arts in the 1989-1990 school year, preventing one Ms Dolores Umbridge from entering Hogwarts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For an image of a Japanese serow, see also http://factsanddetails.com/archives/002/201405/5383841f8e014.jpg


	11. Sabbatical

It is the end of term in 1990. Harry is talking with the surprisingly pleasant Quirinus Quirrell. Harry has spent most of the year, besides hiding from his students, talking with the various ghosts, who now respond to him since he is a professor.

Despite the teasing from Severus, he learned something quite valuable indeed from a ghost—Rowena Ravenclaw’s diadem is Voldemort’s horcrux. And the last time it was seen was in Albania.

Harry barely managed to get through the remainder of the school year without leaving for Albania to search for the diadem to destroy it. Harry has publicly made an announcement to the fellow staff members that he’s going to Albania after he’s done teaching here for a year or so. When Severus is asked what he feels about this—the other staff members noticing their unusually close friendship—Severus just rolls his eyes and says, “You try to control him and then come back to me.”

Severus likely would be coming along for the summer, if he didn’t have to stay to supervise a student who is failing his potions class. Since Severus is actually _really nice_ , although this is completely unknown to anyone other than Harry at this point in time, he will generously take time during his summer to make sure students can catch up if they’re falling behind so they can stay with their year group instead of being held back.

However, to the student, it just seems like extended detention—and Harry just has to laugh because when he was that age, he also would have considered the actually generous offer a miserable torture.

Quirinus Quirrell interrupts Harry’s thoughts by saying, “It’s my sabbatical year, actually,”

“I’ve heard,” Harry says. “I’m going to Albania, though.”

“I’m actually telling you because I was wondering if I could come with you,” Quirrell asks. “If not, that’s fine, but, we’re friends?” He ends his statement with a question.

“Uh,” Harry starts. “Sure, I guess so.” Quirrell doesn’t have to know _why_ Harry is in Albania. They’re just travelling _to_ Albania together.

Quirrell beams.

Their trip goes smoothly for a few months, until the day Quirrell accidentally becomes possessed by Lord Voldemort.

“Why did you not come looking for me, my soul?” the possessed Quirrell hisses.

_Why the fuck do these things always happen to me_ —"I have!” Harry improvises. “I have brought the man you are possessing so you could have a body until we can make you a new one! I apologise for taking so long, but I did not know where you were. At last, my search is profitable.”

Harry is pretty sure it's obvious he's lying, but Voldemort clearly has not improved in mental capabilities since their last meeting.

“I knew I could count on my loyal apprentice,” Voldemort says through Quirrell’s mouth.

_That’s actually really creepy_ , Harry thinks. “I was being watched as well, and I can only be out of the country for a few days at a time; my time here is drawing to a close.”

“You have persevered, and you will be rewarded,” Voldemort says. “What about this body? Does he suffer from _limitations_? Have you given me a sullied host?”

“No!” Harry is quick to say. “He is a respected teacher at Hogwarts, trusted by all.”

“You have served me so well,” Voldemort says.

_What the fuck, creepy, what the fuck, this is bad_ —“I am honoured by your words, Otec,” Harry says, biting back his gag.

“I seek the Philospher’s Stone for my resurrection. You may return home and resume your life, but I expect a report of its whereabouts immediately upon my own return. I will come to you soon,” Quirrell’s mouth says.

Harry bows. “I live to serve you,” he says, and then without another word, he walks away until he thinks he’s out of view, and then he turns his walk into a complete sprint, a near impossible feat due to his hyperventilating and the tears and snot that are dripping down his face.

He manages to convince a Ministry worker that he needs to return to Scotland immediately. The worker accommodates him, likely due to the frightful state he is in—the tears staining his cheeks, his eyes red with exhaustion and fear and stress and— _he’s back, he’s really back, this is my fault—_

“We have a problem,” Harry says, bursting into Dumbledore’s office. Minerva McGonagall has papers strewn about her, having been dismantled from her lap in surprise.

“Harry!” she exclaims, clasping her hand to her chest, obviously startled. “What on earth are you doing here? Can’t you see we are in a meeting?”

“I need to talk to you, immediately,” Harry says, breathing heavily, staring at Dumbledore, _begging_ him to understand by the fear in his eyes.

Dumbledore looks at Harry carefully. “Minerva, would you mind?”

Minerva purses her lips. “Fine,” she says. “But I’ll be waiting outside—I don’t want to clean that up.” She gestures to the mess on the floor and then leaves the office.

Harry paces back and forth and threads his hands through his hair, pulling on it harshly. “We’ve a serious problem,” he repeats.

“What is it?” Dumbledore says calmly.

“Voldemort is back,” Harry says. “Voldemort is back, and he’s possessing Quirrell, and he wants the Philosopher’s Stone, and he’s coming here to Hogwarts, and he thinks I’m still loyal, but I’m not and—oh _god_ , he’s back. I thought I had more time—”

“Take a deep breath,” Dumbledore instructs in an authoritative tone. “He’s back? How do you know?”

“I saw—he possessed Quirrell, and then _spoke_ to me, through him, and—he’s back, just _trust_ me,” Harry says in distress.

“What do you mean, you thought you had more time?” Dumbledore asks.

“The noodling,” Harry dismisses Dumbledore’s question with a wave of his hand. “But this isn’t good, and we have to warn people, and we can’t let him come back to Britain.”

“I disagree,” Dumbledore says. “We should lure him here.”

Harry stops dead in his tracks. “Are you _stupid_? That’s such a bad idea!”

Dumbledore stares Harry down. “If he’s here, we know where he is. We know what he’s doing. We can make sure that his actions are accounted for.”

“But it’s _Voldemort_!” Harry exclaims. “And this is a _school_! With little kids!”

“I will not allow any students here to be hurt,” Dumbledore says.

Harry scoffs. “Because that’s worked so well in the past,” Harry sneers. “Severus told me about the cursed vaults, Albus. I’ve worked with those kids—they’re traumatised.” 

“That was not because of _my_ actions,” Dumbledore says. “They sought the danger!”

“And now you want to bring danger to them!” Harry shouts. “You can’t just _do_ that! The vaults were all found, and the curses were broken, and now we can finally have peaceful years at Hogwarts, and you want to _ruin_ that by invited _Lord Voldemort_ into the castle!”

“Please, calm down,” Dumbledore raises a placating hand. “I understand your fears, and I appreciate that you feel comfortable enough to share them with me—but you are no longer a teacher here. We don’t have time to find a new one, and Quirrell is already contracted for a year.”

“Please,” Harry begs. “Don’t do this.” _The future isn’t going to change._

“I too have my own reservations about this plan, and I promise that I will consider alternatives,” Dumbledore says.

“Thank you,” Harry says. “At least consider it.”

“I will,” Dumbledore says. He sits there, contemplating Harry for a moment. “I hope you realise that you can’t hide from him anymore? You are not allowed to be neutral, not with the position you have previously held. He will be counting on you to regroup the Death Eaters.”

Harry turns his head away. “I know,” he says. “And I don’t want to. I _can’t_.”

Dumbledore nods solemnly. “I wish I could trust you to spy, Mr Smith.”

Harry raises his head so fast he feels the bones crack in his neck. “What? You don’t _trust_ me?”

“I failed to trust you in the last war,” Dumbledore says. “And I fear you resent me, and will never trust _me_ in an equal measure.”

Harry chokes on his words for several moments. “So what do I do?” Harry asks weakly.

“You leave,” Dumbledore says regretfully. “You leave the country, and you flee. You cannot stay here, unless you are willing to fight on the front line.”

“I am willing—I just—” _have to make it back to 1997._

And so Harry never finishes his sentence as he realises that Dumbledore is right. He has to leave. He has to leave Britain, flee the country—and—and—

—and do _something_ until it’s time for him to return.

“I have to tell Severus,” Harry says.

“That would be wise,” Dumbledore responds.

Harry sighs despondently. “I’ll leave tomorrow. Good luck, Albus.”

“Good luck, Harry.”

Severus does not take the news well.

“You don’t have to leave! Dumbledore is overreacting!” he shouts.

“I _do_!” Harry says. His hands are pulling his own hair. “Dumbledore doesn’t even trust me enough _to_ spy. I have to protect you, and myself—and if I don’t go, then what else will I do?”

“Stay with me? Be with me?” Severus pleads. “You won’t be alone? _I_ won’t be alone?”

“Dumbledore doesn’t trust me, and he won’t trust _you_ if you keep spending time with me!” Harry says.

“That’s not true,” Severus says. “He doesn’t trust as units, but as individuals.”

Harry shrugs. “Either way, if I stay—if I stay—but I _can’t_ handle being around Voldemort right now—I just _can’t_. I can’t be with him anymore!”

“Then _don’t_!”

“You can’t just _leave_ Voldemort!” Harry says, exasperated. “He needs to think I’ve been driven out of the country!”

“He won’t believe that!”

“He _will_ —he’s insane. Just mention it on the first day of classes or something, and he’ll eat it up,” Harry says, running his hands through his hair again.

“I refuse this,” Severus says. “I refuse to accept this. You’re my only friend—you are not leaving me. You’re staying here.”

“Then you’re going to be denying reality for a long time, because I _am_ leaving.”

“You’re running away! You’re _scared_ and you’re leaving everything behind for us to handle!”

“Maybe I am scared!” Harry shouts. “What’s wrong with that?”

“What’s wrong with that? _What’s wrong with that_? Harry—you’re abandoning _everyone_!” Severus yells. “This isn’t like you—who even _are_ you? You’re always hiding from me!”

“As if you’re not? As if you’re not hiding from me? Your Patronus is still a doe,” Harry mocks. “You still love my _mother_.”

Severus rears back in shock. “That’s not true,” he says weakly.

“Then what is?” Harry says angrily. “What is true, Severus? Are you friends with me because I remind you of her? You still love her!”

“No—no,” Severus stammers.

Harry laughs in disbelief. “I thought so,” he says bitterly. “You love a memory.”

“Don’t you dare speak for me,” Severus says. “You don’t have the right.”

“I have more right than anyone else!” Harry shouts. “I’ve been your friend for _decades_!”

“Hardly!” Severus says. “Most of that time we’ve lived apart—I’ve been at Hogwarts and you’ve been gallivanting off doing _wards_ —whatever the fuck that means—probably shagging every bloke you fancy—when I’ve actually been _working_!”

“Oh, fuck you,” Harry says lowly.

Severus sneers. “And maybe I do love a memory—the memory of how you used to be, years ago. You’re a different person now, and I don’t know if I like that person anymore.”

“Then good thing I’m leaving, huh?” Harry says, raising his arms out as if to say _here I am_.

“Get out, Harry,” Severus spits. “Don’t you dare come back.”

“I won’t,” Harry snarls, and then slams the door behind him.

* * *

He goes to Toronto, Canada. It’s English-speaking. The country is not as obvious or populous as their neighbor to the south, not as exotic as countries in the Southern Hemisphere. There’s enough wizards for him to easily blend in. It helps that the wizarding community’s interest in British foreign affairs is low. A good hiding place, for now.

It’s lonely in Toronto. His flat is bare; he works as a curse-breaker, primarily dealing with indigenous artifacts. Angry with the theft of their homelands, the indigenous witches and wizards of North and South America cursed many of their relics, hoping— _knowing_ —that in the future, some unfortunate— _deserving_ —soul would stumble upon them. Revenge, in the only way they could, without fearing for their lives; being fully aware that they would be dead when the curses activated so they would get away with it—live their lives without any consequences for the curses that now wreck many well-meaning individuals trying to reunite the relics with the descendants of their creators.

Harry undos the curses—it’s his job—but although he knows he can never understand the depth of their pain, he thinks he can relate in only a minor way to the anger, the resentment, the _helplessness_ of being driven away from home.

It’s a horrible comparison, and Harry knows this, because the genocide and banishment of an entire people—of countless people—is nothing like his current situation—but he’s drifting, drifting. He’s trying to find connections to something, to _someone_. Because he knows that these next seven years will be lonely ones indeed.

From the winter of 1990 until the spring of 1997. _Make it back home. Get back to 1997. Survive._ It’s a constant refrain, a constant drone and a constant reminder of what’s he’s doing here. He’s here, in Toronto, _Canada_ , to survive. To get back to his friends. In 1997.

But—his friends. _God_ , it’s been, what, now nearing twenty years—and Harry can hardly remember what they even _look_ like. He thinks he’ll be able to recognise them; after all, they won’t have changed from his fading memory—but Harry’s hardly the same person anymore. He’s—he has an entirely different soul!

But even then—even then, he’s not sure. He’s terrified he won’t know who his friends are when he sees them for the first time in twenty years. It has to be an isolated meet-up, where he doesn’t have to pick them out of a crowd. Harry is ashamed to think this, he’s embarrassed— _these are his friends_ —but what is he supposed to do? He’s different, now.

It’s lonely in Toronto. He has a few passing acquaintances, but Harry’s afraid to get attached. He’s afraid to make Toronto his home. He doesn’t want to settle here—he doesn’t want to feel like he belongs even though that’s the feeling he desperately seeks. That feeling is reserved for that obscure point of time he's calling _after_ , but still— _still_ —it’s an irrational feeling, and Harry tells himself that it’s _okay_ to move on. It’s _okay_ to make new friends, it’s _okay_ to make a home, it’s _okay_ to be happy, to enjoy life, to feel free of the reputation, of the damage, and the whispers and rumours and disdain that surrounded him on the other side of the world. It’s _okay_ to want to live a better life. It’s _okay_ to _want_ to live here, in Toronto, near the lake, in his flat by St John’s Cemetery, where it's only twenty minutes to walk to the lake shore if he’s really going slow, where the entrance to the magical district is only a 40 minute bus ride, easily within his abilities to apparate if he wants to, but the bus ride not too long if he’s a little tipsy and feels like he’d splinch himself. It’s _okay_ to want these things—to _want_ to stay here, in this life he’s built, with his friends, Sue and Maggie and Paul and Vishnu and Raúl and and and—

—and despite all of this, despite _all_ of it, it’s lonely in Toronto.

Despite the laughter he shares with Raúl when he accidentally sets off a curse that causes him to lose all of his hair— _all_ of his hair—despite the late nights spent dancing with Maggie and Paul in turn, shamelessly singing along to the music—despite the coffee (for Vishnu) and tea (for Harry) and muffins (for both) eaten and spilt when racing for the bus (have you _tried_ apparating with food?)—despite the early mornings jogging with Sue talking about their dreams, bonding over a shared past of being a neglected child, talking about how in the future, they’ll raise their own family right (but not with each other, no—they’re good friends, but that’s it)—despite it—despite _it all_ —it’s lonely in Toronto.

Because even though he confesses to Maggie and Paul who are now dating what he’s done, who he is, why he’s here, a few days after Sirius Black dies in _real time_ ( _god_ , it’s getting so close), and even though Maggie gives Harry a hug that speaks more words than anything Harry has ever felt before— _we’re here for you, we understand you, we love you, we know who you are and we_ accept _you_ —and even though they convince them to tell Raúl and Vishnu and Sue, and even though Harry does and Raúl just laughs hysterically and says he thought he was going to have t _o call up mi hermanos to murder someone who hurt you_ —even though Sue hits Raúl because _have you ever heard of tact you asshole_ —and even though Harry knows Raúl was just kidding, it stings because _god_ , these friends actually _would_ kill for him—and even though Harry is shocked and stunned that none of them treat him any differently after he told them he’s _killed people_ because Vishnu just says— _hey, it’s obvious to all of us that you’re not someone who would do that anymore. Your past is past. Thank you for trusting us enough to share_ —and even though Paul just punches Harry in the shoulder lightly— _you’re as good as my little brother, of course we still love you_ —and even though Harry cries and they all hug him and even though Harry knows that these are true friends, these are good friends, these are people he will happily live the rest of his life with—even though they somehow know about the damn noodling too—even though they’re wonderful friends, it’s lonely in Toronto.

It’s January of 1997. He hasn’t forgotten he still has a duty to return to across the Atlantic—he has unfinished business; he’s been on sabbatical. He goes to his friends, to Sue and Maggie and Paul and Vishnu and Raúl, and he tells them it’s almost Easter, it’s almost time for him to finish what was started over 37 years ago, for him. _God_ , he feels old.

They do nothing to try and dissuade him—they know Harry now, after knowing him for longer than Hermione and Ron have known him— _these people have known him for longer than Hermione and Ron_ —they know that Harry is stubborn, that when he gets his mind set on something, he sees it through. He sees it to its completion. They all have their own “Harry-being-a-stubborn-arse” story—each of his friends— _god_ , his friends. He has friends, real friends. People who really care about him, who really want to see him once this is over—they’re already planning for a trip to the Caribbean once Harry returns—they’re not saying _if_ , they’re saying _when_ , as if it’s guaranteed Harry will be returning to Toronto when he’s finished his quest, when he’s fulfilled the prophecy, but will Harry come back? Will Harry return to his flat by the cemetery, where the road can be noisy but the cemetery is quiet and perfect for those melancholy moments when he feels so terribly lonely in Toronto?

Maybe he will. What does he have waiting for him in Britain? Severus Snape was his dear friend—but they left on such terrible terms—and maybe—maybe—maybe he can still be friends with Hermione and Ron, but they’re young, they’re so horribly young and naive and—well, he’ll see, won’t he?

It’s only a few days away now, and through letters sent through barn swallows (owls hate flying over oceans and they haven’t the stamina in the first place) Harry has arranged to reunite with Severus a day before his younger self noodles.

And then there’s little else left to do but spend the last few moments with his friends, who tell him that they’re expecting him to make Sue’s birthday party in two weeks, and then he’s taking the portkey, across the sea, and his feet touch the ground—the training Voldemort gave him allowing him to stay upright—and he’s neither home nor back, but he _has_ arrived.


	12. Repentance

Harry Potter enters Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in 1991. He is excited for potions. He looks entirely too familiar to one Professor Snape—so familiar, that he takes out his anger, his regret, his fear out on the little boy, making him hate potions until he falls into the past.

One Albus Dumbledore takes one look at little Harry Potter, and has to restrain tears, because he recognises the little boy as a foil for the lost Harry Smith, and Albus wishes desperately to take back all of those times where he spurned Harry Smith’s attempts to reach out. He sends little Harry Potter an invisibility cloak that his father left him, _use it well_ , he says—a promise, a hope, a prayer—he will not fail this child, not this boy—removing the object that has haunted him ever since it first appeared on his boggart’s shoulders.

One Minerva McGonagall looks at Harry Potter, thinks he looks vaguely familiar, but decides he must look exactly like his deceased father, James Potter. Except those eyes—who has those eyes? His mother—yes, his mother. His mother’s eyes. No one else, surely... right?

One Quirinus Quirrell looks at Harry Potter and sees his downfall—he knows his most loyal servant has been driven away from the country, and he dreams of the day that his servant will be born so he can send him back to the past where he belongs. But this irritating flea—this pest who dares have the same name as his most loyal? He needs to be dealt with before any younger version of his loyal apprentice can be found.

* * *

Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley watch their best friend disappear before their eyes.

“Harry?” Ron says. “This isn’t funny. Take your cloak off.”

“I don’t think that was the cloak,” Hermione says weakly. “I think that he’s actually _gone_.”

“Gone where?” Ron says. “Did You-Know-Who take him— _how_ is he gone?”

Hermione looks at Ron with nervous eyes. “We have to tell Dumbledore.”

When Dumbledore lets them into their office, a frantic Ron and Hermione enter.

“Harry’s just disappeared! Right in front of us!” Ron says.

“Vanished!” Hermione agrees.

Dumbledore looks at them carefully. “Why would you say that?”

“Because it happened right in front of us! We’re not joking—he’s really _gone_! We think You-Know-Who took him! Kidnapped him!” Ron says impatiently. “He’s probably being tortured right now!”

“If he’s not already dead!” Hermione says.

“Let me call Severus,” Dumbledore says. He quickly turns to his fireplace, and throws some floo powder into the flames, and sticks his head into them. “Severus? We seem to have an issue.”

“And why does this concern me?” Severus responds.

“I need to you confirm or deny some of the Dark Lord’s plans,” Dumbledore says. “Please come to my office.”

Severus groans, but does as requested.

“What seems to be the problem?” Severus says slowly.

“Harry Potter has vanished,” Dumbledore says, folding his arms neatly. His voice is calm, but his eyes are stressed.

Severus looks heavenward and swears. Dumbledore sits up straighter. “Do you know where he is?”

“Yes,” Severus says reluctantly. “I assume you wish to see him?”

“He's with _you_?” Ron exclaims. “How do _you_ know where he is?”

Severus shoots him a look that seems to say _if you say one more thing I will murder you_. “That is none of your concern,” he says. “I will be back momentarily.”

Only a few minutes later, during which Ron paces around the office and Hermione bites her nails and Dumbledore sits tensely, Severus returns with a strange man—and upon seeing the man, both Ron and Hermione look at each other in confusion because this is _not_ their friend Harry Potter but is actually some thirty-some-old bloke dressed in Muggle attire with a beard. But when they look at Albus Dumbledore to reassure themselves, they notice that their Headmaster is starting to cry.

“Oh, Harry,” Dumbledore says softly.

“Hi, Albus,” the man named Harry says, hands in his pockets, rocking on his feet—heel-toe, heel-toe.

“I don’t know how I didn’t see it before,” Dumbledore offers pathetically.

The man named Harry hums in agreement. “Well,” he shrugs. “We’re good at lying to ourselves.”

Ron looks at Hermione. Somehow this old guy is also named Harry—but this is _not_ their friend.

Severus’s arms are folded. “I’m still furious with you, and I will never forgive you for leaving the way you did.”

“Yeah, I know,” Harry runs his hand through his hair. “But really, it only seems to make sense.”

“What have you been doing the past six years?” Albus asks, ignoring the cryptic remarks between the two.

“Living,” Harry says simply. He hesitates, “I found a home. Where I belong. So I’ll be going back there when things are wrapped up here.”

Dumbledore bites back a sob. “I’m happy for you,” he croaks. “So glad you found a place for yourself. You deserve what we couldn’t provide. Did you do anything else?”

“I learned a few more tricks, I suppose. Would you like to see?”

“That depends,” Dumbledore says carefully, “on what sort of tricks they are.”

Harry smiles half-heartedly. “Probably the kind you wouldn’t like.” He turns to Severus. “You know what, though? We tried so hard that last year to change things, but nothing changed at all.”

“You’re pulling my leg,” Severus says blankly.

“No,” Harry says with a half laugh. “I guess we were just terrible at it.”

“Time is incomprehensible,” Albus says. “You probably set in motion things that came to be, rather than preventing their course.”

“That’s what happened with the diary,” Harry nods. “I shouldn’t have mentioned that Lou was going to give it away in 1992—because that’s what he ended up doing when he didn’t know what else to do.”

Ron stiffens. _Lou_? For _Lucius_? Lucius Malfoy?

“Excuse me?” Hermione says. “Our friend is _missing_ and you’re talking about _time_ —so let’s talk about time—we don’t have any, Harry has been captured by the Death Eaters! He’s going to be killed!”

Harry looks at Hermione in stunned silence—and then he breaks out laughing loudly. Severus joins in the laughter only a few seconds later.

“This isn’t funny!” Ron says angrily. “Harry is in serious danger from Voldemort!”

And then _Dumbledore_ starts to laugh—and then all of the adults are laughing, and Hermione and Ron can only stare at each other helplessly.

Harry finally manages to get control of himself. “Oh, don’t worry,” Harry says. “He’s not in danger—if anything, they’re in danger from him.”

Hermione bristles. “How can you say that?! They’re twenty years older than him!”

And this sets off a new round of laughter, until Hermione screeches in frustration. “Will someone _please_ answer me!”

Dumbledore wipes tears from his eyes and says, “You don’t need to worry for you friend, because he’s right here.”

Hermione looks at Dumbledore blankly for a heartbeat, then her eyes widen, and she looks at Harry and her mouth drops. “Harry?” she asks.

Ron turns his head so quickly his hair flies. “ _You’re_ Harry? Our friend?”

Harry smiles sheepishly. “Hi,” he says dumbly.

“But you’re—you’re _old_ ,” Ron says. “And friends with Snape?”

“Actually, Severus is really nice,” Harry says, gesturing to their professor.

“Stop telling them that,” Severus says.

Dumbledore pipes up. “But it’s true, Severus. They should be allowed to meet the true you.”

“Maybe when we’re not in a war? How about that?” Severus says sarcastically.

“Oh, very well,” Dumbledore responds, waving his crippled hand.

“What the fuck did you do to your hand? I completely forgot about that!” Harry exclaims before clapping his own hand over his mouth and mumbling an odd apology about profanity and Australian friends.

“Oh!” Dumbledore says eagerly, ignoring Harry’s unintelligible sounds. “Could you please take a look?”

Hermione and Ron look at each other in confusion.

“Sure,” Harry says. He pulls out his wand and takes Dumbledore’s hand. He casts a single spell and then pales. “Oh, dear,” he says. “I’m so sorry, Albus. I completely forgot I cast this spell.”

“ _You_ did that?!” Severus says, with echoes from Hermione and Ron.

“Yeah, but it was like nine years ago,” Harry shrugs. He waves his wand in a circular motion, and says, “Odchýliť”

And then, slowly—miraculously—the curse recedes from Dumbledore’s arm until his hand is completely restored. “Thank you, Harry,” Albus says gratefully, flexing his fingers in both relief and awe.

“Sure thing,” Harry shrugs. “I’m sorry about that—I was trying to prevent random people from coming up on the ring. I was going to destroy it, but I got kicked out of the country for some reason.”

“My apologies,” Dumbledore says.

“I’m still bitter about that,” Harry says.

“I didn’t know who you were!” Dumbledore tries to excuse himself.

“I _taught_ here! And I was never bad!” Harry exclaims.

“Oh, but really, Harry, you had to have known what people said about you!”

“Well, people say a lot of things. What do you _mean_?”

“Oh, really, Harry, I don’t want to do this in front of your friends,” Dumbledore says faintly.

Harry glances at Hermione and Ron and shrugs. “I haven’t seen them in twenty years—no offense, mates. And they’re going to find out one way or another, and at least they’ll know it’s true if you say it.”

Dumbledore hesitates.

Severus scoffs. “Your prejudice is _stunning_ , Albus. You know Harry just _healed_ you with Dark Magic?”

Hermione bolts upright. “Dark Magic?” she says. Harry turns away, looking as if he's restraining laughter. “You’ve corrupted him!” Hermione accuses Severus.

“He’s a no-good Death Eater!” Ron says.

“Sure,” Harry laughs in a way that looks like he's trying not to cry. He ignores their protests and turns to Albus. “You have to understand that Dark Magic and Light Magic are both just magic. And I agree with you _completely_ that there’s a lot of Dark Magic that is horrendous, and I’ll be the first to admit that I’ve used my fair share of it—but there’s also a lot of it that can do good.”

“Like what?” Dumbledore asks.

Harry smiles. “Well, you can look at someone’s soul,” he says.

“Really?” Hermione says.

“It’s beautiful, trust me—you can see the colour of someone’s soul—and that’s it. Just the colour,” Harry says.

“That’s interesting,” Albus mutters.

“And then, obviously, there’s the healing—I just healed your hand; it would have killed you eventually, you know?”

“I was aware.”

“I’m sorry about that, truly, I am—but there’s also protection and wards, and battle magic—and you're right, there is a lot of horrifying vulgar stuff, but I mean it just depends really on what its used for,” Harry explains.

Dumbledore raises an eyebrow. “ _Any_ spell?”

Harry clarifies, “Most spells. The Unforgivables are unforgivable. They’ve no other purpose.”

“But what about the spell you were most famous for as the Contortionist? How could _that_ possibly be used for something beneficial?” Dumbledore accuses. 

“The Contortionist?” Hermione says, horrified. “ _You_ were the _Contortionist_?”

Harry waves a dismissive hand In Hermione’s direction. “That spell,” Harry says, facing Dumbledore, “is actually used to make pretzels.”

Dumbledore and Hermione both look horrified. Ron looks like he’s about to vomit.

“You turned people into pretzels?” Ron chokes.

“Not by choice, and I hated every second of it,” Harry says sharply.

“You have to do what you need to in order to survive, Albus. You know this,” Severus adds.

“That doesn’t mean I have to like it,” Albus says condescendingly.

Harry bites down on his teeth. “You have no right to assume that I _enjoyed_ myself. I hated every second of it—I went home, and was _sick_. I hated myself for hours, and I _still_ hate myself, alright? You know I was a _horcrux_ , too?”

“Is that how you gained his trust?” Dumbledore looks at Harry with dismay.

“No, you fool,” Harry laughs bitterly. “It took _control_.”

Hermione gasps. Ron weakens, collapsing into the chair beside Hermione. Dumbledore, momentarily speechless, is stunned. “Oh, my poor boy—I am so sorry.”

“Yeah, it sucked,” Harry says, crossing his arms. “Thanks for telling me, by the way. Also—do you know what I had to do to get rid of it?”

“You managed to destroy it?” Dumbledore sits up straighter. “How?”

Harry twists his lips in morbid humour. “I merged it with my own soul,” he says.

The colour fades from Dumbledore’s horrified face and a pale sweat breaks out over him—he looks nauseated and appears like he is about to vomit. Hermione and Ron are horrified, huddled close together.

Severus Snape wraps an arm around Harry’s shoulder, unafraid.

“I am the same Harry Potter you knew and loved,” Harry says. “The only change is that I’m better at Dark Magic than I was before. But I have complete control over all of my actions. I remember when the horcrux was in control, Albus. I didn’t care about anything, or anyone—and I was stuck behind it screaming for it to stop.”

Dumbledore ignores the tear falling down his cheek. “Why would you do this?”

Harry smiles cruelly. “I had no other choice,” he says. “The horcrux wanted it, and the horcrux obeys the main soul.”

Dumbledore buries his head in his hands.

“For that ritual, I did the most horrific things I could ever imagine. I killed seven innocent people after torturing them, Albus. And I stand before you, how I am today—and I am a _good person_ , and I want to bring the Dark Lord Voldemort down, and I want to see him destroyed, off of this earth for what he has done to me. For making me cast those spells. For forcing me to perform rituals I never wanted to do.

“I won’t deny I was interested in the magic,” Harry continues. “I am _good_ at Dark Magic. I can’t deny that. But I can hate myself for how I have used it. This is one of my eternal truths, Albus. I _need_ to atone for my sins by tearing down the man who introduced me to them.”

Severus squeezes Harry’s shoulder. Albus looks at Harry and sighs. “How can you atone when you’ve killed dozens?”

Harry shakes his head. “That’s not true. I’ve only killed eight people.”

“ _Eight_?” Hermione says. “How come _eight_?”

Harry bows his head. “There was one other—one other than the ritual, and that’s my deepest regret. But for all of the others I have been accused of, I am innocent.”

“How on earth is that possible? There are eyewitness accounts of the Contortionist’s victims” Albus says.

“When you are good at magic,” Harry says, “especially Dark Magic, as I am, you can create illusions so realistic that you cannot differentiate them from reality until they disappear.”

“You mean to say that—that it was all a show?” Albus says, astonished.

“It was,” Harry confirms.

“How were you not imprisoned?” Albus says.

“I was never given the Mark,” Harry shrugs. “And being close with Severus helped, since you gave him credibility.”

Albus looks shocked. “You never had the Mark?”

“I can’t believe you didn’t realise this,” Severus drawls. “He was quite excessive with flaunting his unmarked arms when he taught here.” 

“I assumed you used a charm,” Albus admits.

Harry rolls his eyes as Severus scoffs. “If only it were that easy,” Severus says.

“He trusted me,” Harry says, referring to Voldemort, as if this explains everything.

Dumbledore sits there quietly for a few moments, measuring Harry in front of him as he reconciles the new knowledge he has gained.

Severus begins to speak. “It is true, every word. Harry is an honourable man, much more honourable than I am.”

Harry shakes his head vigorously. “No, that’s not true—you never went to battle, you never killed anyone.”

Severus laughs. “No, I actually _believed_ in the cause! You never did.”

“Well, I actually knew what it would turn out to be, while you were optimistic and convinced by the propaganda,” Harry points out.

Albus finally makes a decision. “It is true, neither of you are to blame for your actions, and you are both good people.”

Finally, Ron gains the courage to speak. “Wait, Harry— _are_ you a Death Eater?”

Harry smiles broadly. “Nope,” he says.

“Then why were you fighting _with_ the Death Eaters?” Hermione asks nervously, shooting a look at Dumbledore, obviously reassured with his declaration of Harry’s good intentions, but terrified of the knowledge that their best friend has somehow aged twenty years and killed eight people and become friends with _Snape_.

“Oh,” Harry grins. “That’s because I was Voldemort’s apprentice.”

Several hours later, Hermione and Ron have been sent away after a thorough and completely unsatisfying discussion of what actually happened to their best friend—“A _zucchini_ noodling?! That’s the most rare type of noodling there is!” Hermione had exclaimed to Harry’s exasperated nod—Albus, Harry, and Severus are left in the office discussing the horcruxes.

“We’ve destroyed the ring, and the diary,” Harry says. “Is that right?”

Albus nods. “Yes, and there’s this cave where I suspect the locket will be. It is highly fortified, and will undoubtedly be dangerous.”

Harry waves a hand dismissively. “Don’t even worry about the defences. I can get through all of his spells.”

Albus’s eyes widen in barely masked joy. “I see,” he says.

“There _was_ a reason I agreed to be his apprentice, you know—to make this part of the war easier,” Harry says with a small smile.

Albus laughs. “Well, shall we go now?” he says brightly.

Harry shrugs. “I don’t see why not.”

“Do you know the place?” Albus asks.

Harry hesitates for a moment, thinking, then shakes his head in the negative.

“I’ll take you there,” Albus decides. “Severus, are you accompanying us?”

Severus purses his lips, appearing to have remembered that he was supposed to be angry at Harry’s reappearance rather than pleased considering the way they left things. “No, I’d rather not,” he says tightly. “As glad as I am to see you Harry, you do realise that I have not forgiven you yet for your rather _abrupt_ departure.”

“That wasn’t my fault!” Harry protests, pointing to the Headmaster. “It was Albus! He _made_ me leave! He didn’t trust me around Voldemort!”

Severus raises his eyebrow. “Typical,” he sneers. “You’re so like your father—arrogant and—”

And then Harry raises his hand and clenches his fist in the air, the motion cutting off Severus’s words, leaving him mouthing profanities without making a sound. Albus stares at Harry in disbelief.

“You _know_ me,” Harry says coldly. “And you know who I am.”

Severus’s facial expressions go through a confusing mix of frustration, fear, anger, exasperation, and fury as he listens.

“You _know_ me,” Harry repeats, glaring at the silenced professor. “And you know that I am not the child who disappeared from this castle only a few hours earlier. I am the same age as you. Act like the adult I know you are.”

Harry turns to Albus. “I will be waiting for you by the gates so we can disapparate,” he says, then turns on his heel to leave the office.

“What about Severus?” Albus calls, Severus gesturing wildly.

“What about him?” Harry says coldly. “He should learn to think before he speaks. The spell will have worn off in the morning.” Harry wraps his cloak around him tightly, then walks out of the office and down the gargoyle’s stairs.

Severus sits down. He stares at his hands in an anger that is softening into guilt. Albus looks at him kindly. “I know I shouldn’t interfere,” Albus starts. Severus shoots him a glare that would cause any normal person to back off, but Albus presses on fearlessly. “But you do realise that was a _very_ foolish thing to say?”

Severus looks at Albus blankly for a few moments, then snorts inaudibly. He gestures as if to say _no, really?_

“I know you’re aware of that,” Albus says lightly. “But really, he could have done much worse to you. I worry for him—he’s too Dark, quick to react—and the scope of his wandless magic is frightening! I fear one day it will become too great for him.”

Severus stares at Albus with disbelief before shaking his head in frustration. He tries to gesture a response, but then gives up, then tries again, miming a writing motion. Albus understands, and passes him a quill and parchment. Severus bends and begins to write.

_Needs support, not doubt._

Albus reads the missive and raises his eyebrows. “Your moods change rapidly regarding the boy.”

_Not a boy._

“True enough. That will be difficult to remember,” Albus agrees. “But my point is the same—you switch so rapidly between loving and hating him, from fighting to appeasing him. I fear it’s unhealthy. He holds all the power in your relationship.”

Severus looks at the parchment for several moments before beginning to write. He tries several times, but scribbles out his response every time before finally deciding on an adequate response.

_Brings out best & worst, but more best; before 1991 only best._

“So your experiences with his younger self give you this frustration with him?”

Severus nods _yes_ , finding this answer unnecessary to write.

“What were you expecting?” Albus asks, genuinely curious.

Severus immediately begins to write.

_same boy I knew from school. thought he’d be Slytherin & like magic we liked, but he wasn’t what I thought. Was belligerent, disrespectful, __Gryffindor_ _. Loved Sirius who was awful in school. Not the Harry I knew & mad @ him. Kept looking for him but couldn’t find him. & he was gone so he couldn’t help me find him_.

Severus pushes the paper back to Albus, folding his arms to watch Albus read.

“I fear I’ve caused you unnecessary pain by sending him away,” Albus comments after deciphering the short-hand, succeeding in parts and failing in others. “But I suppose travelling through time caused Harry to grow exponentially—to be someone who you write and tell me was someone unrecognisable.” Albus pauses for a moment. “I admit, that I too am struggling to reconcile the Contortionist with the Harry Potter I know.”

_Harry Smith_ , Severus writes. _Not Potter.._

“And isn’t that exactly what you just did?” Albus asks wryly.

Severus grimaces, judging this unworthy of a response.

_Merge souls = new one. Different person_. _Forgot. Need to apologise._

“I hardly see the young man that walked these halls only a few hours ago when I look at him now,” Albus says mournfully. “I see someone far too chaotic to be reliable; someone who dances too close to the edge to be counted on to stop the Darkness.”

_He’ll stop DL Trust him_

Albus reads Severus’s words with a half-smile. “Oh, but you understand, don’t you? Trust is very hard to earn when it has already been broken.”

_When?_ Severus scribbles.

Albus sighs. “When I learned he guarded the horcruxes instead of destroying them,” he says. “Those weren’t minor spells on the ring, Severus. Those were archaic and dangerous wards. I almost died from that wasting curse.”

_Not major_.

“Can you really say that?” Albus says with doubt. “What could possibly be _more_ than those spells?”’

_L. Malfoy = 4 years on 1 ward_

“Four years? On _one_ ward?” Albus says. “You’re exaggerating, surely.”

Severus shakes his head slowly.

“I just find it hard to believe, that’s all,” Albus says in an attempt to placate Severus. “I doubt it would have taken that long to do a single ward, but multiple, I could definitely understand.”

Severus circles the number one on the parchment several times.

Albus stares at the parchment in wonder. “Marvellous. What type of ward was it?” 

_Dark._

Albus’s expression starts to sour. “Is that all he can do, now?”

_Light good Dark better_

“So he could forgo Dark Magic entirely?” Albus says.

Severus sighs without making a sound. Whoever decided writing responses was a valid way of communication obviously had not done it themselves. No one has time to write out full sentences. Severus writes _No_ and circles it. He underlines the _Dark better_ several times.

“What are you trying to say?” Albus asks, confused.

_½ life_

Albus studies this writing for several moments. “He would live only a half a life if he chose not to use Dark Magic?”

Severus nods. _Is identity_

“It’s part of your identity?” Albus clarifies. When Severus nods, he continues, “Was he always like this?”

Severus nods emphatically, writing _yes_ along with his vigorous nods.

“But was it when the horcrux was in charge?” Albus asks cautiously. “And can your identity be changed without a soul being removed.”

Severus circles _no_ again. He’s running out of room to write. He flips the parchment over, not thinking about the ink stains that will get on Albus’s desk, and begins to write out an explanation.

“I don’t have any more time, unfortunately. I still do not fully understand, but I think I will just have to accept my ignorance,” Albus says, looking a little peeved at Severus for his impolite ink-staining behaviour, having deciding to make it completely unnecessary out of spite. “Regardless, I do believe Harry is waiting for me at the gates.”

Severus leans back in his chair, raising his eyebrows in disbelief. Seriously? Just because he got ink on the desk, their conversation ends? Severus rolls his eyes in a shockingly plebeian gesture, but then discards the parchment into the rubbish bin, ignores the ink splotches, leaves the quill upside down on a stack of parchment so the ink will seep out of the nib. Then without further ado, he marches out of the office.

Albus, having blatantly ignored Severus’s presence after his decision to halt their conversation, has missed this deliberate sabotage, and so when he departs his office as well, he is unaware that the letters he had been drafting previously are slowing being soaked with his favourite ink, Verdant Vegetation, with a quill that is helpfully spelt with an automatic refilling charm.

When Albus meets Harry at the entrance gates to the Hogwarts grounds, Harry looks at his wrist as if mimicking a watch. “Certainly took your time,” he comments.

“Severus and I had a chat,” Albus says. “But now it is time to destroy an evil man. Are you ready?” He offers his arm.

“Ready,” Harry confirms, and then they are twisting through space tightly and then reforming on the edge of a raging sea, pressed against a cold stone cliff. Harry swears. “Couldn’t you have given me a little warning?”

“I thought you had been here before,” Albus says. “The way you were going on made it seem like you helped establish these locations.”

Harry shakes his head as he begins to carefully pick his path toward the sensation of Dark Magic. “The entrance is this way,” Harry says.

“If you’ve never been here—” Albus starts, but abruptly stops upon remembering a few moments too late that Harry can sense Dark Magic.

Harry almost laughs. “It’s a simple ward,” Harry says, gesturing to the stone doorway. “It wants a blood sacrifice.”

“Fair enough,” Albus says gravely, and begins the motions to draw blood.

“What are you doing?” Harry exclaims, pushing Albus’s hands down. “Don’t actually _do_ it! I was just telling you!”

Albus looked at Harry with surprise. “Am I to believe you will?”

“ _No one_ will. I’m taking the ward down,” Harry says exasperated. “Remember I worked with Michael Odell before I taught at Hogwarts? And when I was exiled, I still worked with wards as a cursebreaker.”

“Ah,” Albus says. “I suppose that is one way around this. It won’t notify him?”

Harry shakes his head. “No. Not if it’s me,” Harry says with a sigh before turning back to the doorway. He raises his wand and says, “ _Skaza_.”

The spell falls, and Harry simply pushes the door open with a small push of his foot. Albus stares at Harry with minor disbelief. “What was that spell?” he asks.

“The eliminator spell,” Harry says with a smile. “I developed it—it’s my favourite spell. It’s essentially a panacea for removing wards.”

“The eliminator spell?” Albus says. “And the spell lives up to the name, I presume.”

“Oh, it does,” Harry says simply, entering the cave. “It removes everything. ”

“The incantation is so simple,” Albus says. “How do more people not know about it?”

“Incantations are just distractions,” Harry explains, stopping in his tracks, not wanting to move through the likely heavily-spelled cave distracted. “At least, they are for me,” Harry amends. “Most of the real spell work underneath is lost for the simplicity of the incantation.”

Albus seems to find this unsavoury. “Why would you purposefully lead someone astray? Shouldn’t you spread this spell so others can use it? It would be so helpful in the fight against Voldemort!”

Harry sighs. “I’m _not_ leading anyone astray. I was trying to say that even though an incantation is simple, it doesn’t mean it’s not hard to cast. It requires serious intent, and a lot of focus, and a lot of power. I’ve practiced it a lot, so I can cast it easily, but it took me a fair amount of time to learn it.”

Albus nods his head. “I understand,” he concedes. “Like the Patronus charm?”

“Like the Patronus,” Harry says. “Not everyone can cast it; far less people than the Patronus, actually, because not many have the background in wards necessary to understand the theory.”

“I apologise for any hard feelings I may have given you,” Albus says. “I’m not sure why, but I feel myself uncharacteristically antagonistic towards you.”

“Well, at least you’re not a manipulative and horrible person who is trying to steal all of my money, marry me off to the Weasleys, plant friends who will spy on me, and abandon me to my relatives in order for me to be abused _just enough_ to be perfectly malleable and naïve for your nefarious plans to work,” Harry shrugs. “I forgive you. Being frustrated with me is entirely reasonable. I haven’t been straightforward with you in years, and that wasn’t fair of me. You don’t know the whole story, and you’re only getting bits and pieces. I’m not upset with you.”

“That gives me great comfort to hear,” Albus says. “I hope I can be as family to you once more.”

Harry smiles weakly. “Let’s talk more when we’re out of this cave,” he suggests. “There’s a lake full of Inferi up ahead, but if we permanently freeze the lake, they won’t be able to bother anyone.”

Albus looks wary. “Are you sure?”

“No,” Harry says. “But it’s either that, or turn the lake into lava, and I’m feeling like the second idea might not be a very good one. Lava isn’t very safe.”

“Well, I can definitely do that,” Albus says. “Shall I?”

Harry nods once. “Go right ahead.”

Albus silently casts a spell and the lake ripples as the entire mass is transformed into complete ice.

“Excellent,” Harry says. “Well, let’s just slide across, then.” Without any hesitation, Harry steps out onto the ice. Albus waits on the shore for several moments, terrified that the ice won’t work—he was _positive_ that the boat had to be taken—but then, to his relief and disgust, Harry succeeds in crossing over to the island in the middle of the frozen lake.

“Well, come on over then! It’s safe!” Harry shouts.

Albus takes a deep breath. His wand held tightly in his hand, he steps out onto the ice. Since it is magical, the ice is clear—he can see straight down to the bottom of the lake and he forces himself to look back up at Harry when he sees the tortured faces of dozens of Inferi; their mouths open in silent screams.

“They don’t feel pain,” Harry says softly when Albus arrives.

“I know, I just can’t help feeling sorry for them,” Albus responds.

“Don’t,” Harry says fiercely. “It’s just bones; their soul has moved on. They are not trapped here. Through the ritual of creating an Inferi, the soul is set free so the creator has complete control over the body.”

“Have—have you created an Inferi, Harry?” Albus asks shakily and with grief.

“What do _you_ think?” Harry replies before turning back to the pedestal with a basin full of a potion. “Anyways, this is where the locket is, you suppose?”

“Undoubtedly,” Albus says. He tries to reach for the locket, but is repelled backward by an invisible spell. “But to retrieve it, I think we must drink the potion.”

“He would intend that,” Harry murmurs. “He definitely would.” A bit louder, Harry continues, “But he wouldn’t want to drink it when he came to visit, so there has to be a way around it. Let me look before we start drinking potions we shouldn’t.”

“Go right ahead,” Albus says. He takes a few steps back, clearing the area around the basin to make room for Harry to examine.

Harry squats and looks carefully at the pedestal the basin is on, before doing an uncomfortable side-step, still in his squat, around the entire pedestal. Harry steps up from his squat and then starts to examine the basin. Again, he circles the basin. This time, he takes a few hurried trips around the basin. Albus is almost afraid Harry will get dizzy and fall over, but then Harry resumes his squat. He is dizzy, Albus realises, because he is struggling to stay straight. Harry then resumes the crab-walk around the pedestal again, and then— “Aha!” Harry says. He points his wand, mutters something under his breath—Albus is unable to determine what he said—and then suddenly stands back to his full height, and laughs. The hearty laughter is in painful juxtaposition with the thick darkness of the cave—Albus winces, desperately wishing for Harry to _stop_ —and then to Albus’s disbelief, Harry simply plucks the locket out of the basin.

“Found it,” Harry says. “Can’t believe I missed it on my first roundabout.”

“You just—” Albus starts.

“Just cancelled the ward,” Harry says. “Warding is _the best_.”

“But—”

“No buts. Let’s get out of here before this lake thaws. It might take a couple months or so, but I don’t want to be around when it does,” Harry says cheerfully.

Still stunned, Albus follows Harry out of the cave, where Harry takes Albus’s arm and disapparates them back to the Hogwarts gates.

“May I come in?” Harry asks politely.

“Please,” Albus says, still processing this incredibly fast progression. Only a few seconds ago, he was standing over a potion he was preparing himself to drink—and surely _die_ —and now he has the locket, the potion was left _undrunk_ and he was thoroughly shamed by the time-travelling version of Harry Potter who strolled into that cave as if it was nothing worse than a classroom full of students.

Some things are too difficult to handle, even for great wizards like Albus Dumbledore, so they just roll with the punches and put things to the back of their mind and pretend it all makes sense until the time comes where they can properly deal with what is going on.

“I presume you have something to destroy it with?” Harry asks eagerly once they are in the privacy of the Headmaster’s office.

Albus nods. “The Sword of Gryffindor—infused with Basilisk venom.”

“Delightful,” Harry says. “I’m glad you do. I was going to offer fiendfyre, but I’ll happily step aside for a sword.”

Albus cringes. “Please _do not_ cast that inside my school. If it becomes uncontrollable, then I can’t imagine the potential damage.”

Harry scratches his head. “I may have already?”

Albus sighs. “When you taught here? Please tell me it wasn’t in front of a student.”

Harry shakes his head. “No—it was a cursed amulet someone had sent me in the post. I didn’t want to keep it—it was hideous—so I destroyed it.”

“Then that’s fine—just don’t do it again!” Albus reprimands. “Well, open up the locket while I fetch the sword.”

Harry does as asked, but when he opens the locket, a small piece of paper falls out of the locket. Reading it, Harry looks up to find Albus standing holding the legendary Sword of Gryffindor.

“Wow,” Harry says. “It’s not as big as I remember.”

“You were twelve the last time you saw it,” Albus says. “Prepare for magical backlash!”

“Hold up; the locket’s a fake,” Harry says before Albus stabs the sword into the locket and likely into his desk. 

It is when Albus is in the process of stopping his sword-stabbing m at the locket that he notices the quill, the ruined parchment, and the puddle of Verdant Vegetation ink that the parchment could no longer contain. “Oh my,” Albus says. “A fake you say?”

“RAB has it,” Harry says before turning his attention to the lovely green disaster. “That’s an awful mess. Did you do that?”

“I think Severus did,” Albus says. “As revenge. For what, I can’t remember. I was very polite.”

“Clearly, you weren’t,” Harry says, using extra parchment to mop up the ink, getting ink all over his hands and even on his arms from stray splashes. Albus is in no better condition, except his glasses are also gaining green accents due to his adjustment of their position. “Or maybe he didn’t know the quill was charmed?”

“Oh, he knew,” Albus says. “We were having a conversation—he was writing and—oh, I remember why now,” Albus says bashfully.

“And?” Harry prompts.

“I was annoyed he got ink stains on my desk,” Albus said woefully, staring at the desk that is now stained with an awful amount of Verdant Vegetation, marring the dark wood surface it once was. “So I left in the middle of his written response.”

“Ah,” Harry says. “That would explain it.”

Albus nods sadly. “My poor desk.”

“Nothing a charm won’t fix,” Harry says optimistically.

“Alas,” Albus Dumbledore says. “It’s permanent.”

“ _Permanent_ permanent?” Harry is slightly taken aback. “That’s playing with fire, you know.”

“I usually only use it for signatures,” Albus says. “But I have made a grave mistake today. But I suppose I was due for a remodelling.”

“I’m sure Severus will take the desk,” Harry says.

Albus smiles. “That is a brilliant suggestion, Harry. I think I shall do just that.”

“Now,” Harry says. “Who is RAB?” He vanishes his sopping wet pile of green parchment.

Albus sits down, ignoring the green stains on his arms and face. “They’re initials. Who could possibly have found that cavern before we did?”

“They had to be involved in setting it up,” Harry says. “Or helped in some way.”

“Who was loyal?” Albus asks.

“Severus would be better at this. I stayed away from the politics—from the war. Voldemort allowed me to, for some reason. I only was involved with the war when specifically requested,” Harry says, rubbing his forehead.

“You must have some idea, though,” Albus says, “of the general rankings.”

Harry sighs and leans back in his seat. “The Blacks,” he says after several moments of intense thought. “They were the most trusted, out of who could fit. But other ‘B’ surnames were the Burkes, Bulstrodes, Blishwicks, Bolonovskys, Borgins—there’s probably a few other that I’m missing—but I think we need to look at the Blacks, first.”

“Then we need to determine which Blacks have the first initials of ‘RA’,” Albus says.

“I don’t have their family tree memorised,” Harry says, rubbing his nose, leaving a green mark upon it. “And although you do happen to know random lists, I would be very surprised if you knew all members of the Black family.”

“You are sadly correct,” Albus agrees. “If I had known beforehand, I would have prepared by memorising it.”

“Where can we find it?” Harry wonders aloud.

“Grimmauld Place,” Albus says. “There’s a tapestry there.”

Harry sits up straight. “I had completely forgotten about Grimmauld Place!”

Albus raises his eyes in mild disbelief,

“It’s been twenty years,” Harry says defensively. “I’m old—give me a break.”

Albus shakes his head with amusement. “In the morning, we shall go to Grimmauld Place and determine the status thereof.”

It only takes a few seconds of examining the Black tapestry the next morning for them to realise that RAB is Regulus Black. Luckily, they have been able to avoid the few people stationed here on their trip up the stairs, despite the late morning hour.

“I feel like I should have known that,” Harry says. “It should’ve been obvious.”

“Well,” Albus says consolingly, “I had forgotten as well.”

“But he betrayed Voldemort,” Harry says. “I could have been there for him—I _should_ have.”

“If you keep thinking about what you should do, you never will,” Albus says.

“Wise words,” Harry says, “but far easier said than done.”

Albus smiles, indulgent. “Yes, well, I never said I wasn’t guilty of that myself.”

“So where would he have put the locket?” Harry says, returning his attention to the task at hand.

“I find the best options are to ask those who we frequently ignore,” Albus says. “Is Kreacher still here?”

Harry jolts, suddenly remembering the old house elf. “Let’s find out. Kreacher!”

No one appears. Harry shrugs, and turns to Albus. “I’m not Harry Potter, anymore. You think that would make a difference?”

But before Albus can respond, the house elf appears with a sluggish pop. “Nasty brat older than before? Not the same but Kreacher still has to serve him. Oh, what would my poor mistress say?”

“Hello, Kreacher,” Harry says.

“You,” Kreacher says with a twitch, “is _old_ somehow.”

Harry snorts with amusement. “I remember you,” he says with a smile. “Yes, I’m old. Time-travel.”

Kreacher does not respond, but continues to look at Harry with mild disdain.

“Well, then,” Harry says. “We’re looking for Regulus’s locket, it looks like this.” Harry shows Kreacher the false locket.

Kreacher begins to wail and pull on his ears. Harry purses his lips and waits for Kreacher to tell his story.

Albus waits patiently throughout the ordeal, but upon the completion of the tale, they finally coax out of Kreacher that the locket is inside the house still.

“We want to destroy it,” Harry interjects. “We want to destroy it, and we’ll give you this replica instead.”

Kreacher pauses his cries, and then contemplates the offer for only a few seconds before popping away, only to quickly return with the horcrux in his hands.

The Dark Magic that seeps out of it is astonishing, and Harry takes an involuntary step back.

“Don’t touch It,” Harry blurts when Albus stretches out his hand. “Let me handle it, please.”

“Very well,” Albus says, retracting his arm.

“I’m the Dark Magic expert here,” Harry reminds Albus. “Just because it doesn’t hurt a house elf doesn’t mean it can’t hurt you.” Harry stows the locket inside his pocket, sealing it shut.

“Before we return, there’s an Order meeting,” Albus says. “You’re welcome to attend.”

Harry hesitates. “Who will be there?” he asks.

“Everyone,” Albus says. “And they could use some hope.”

“I’m not their shining beacon anymore, Albus,” Harry reminds him. “I’m hardly the same boy they remember. And they don’t even know I was _gone_.”

“True,” Albus shrugs elegantly. “But even if they don’t know who you once were, they need to know who you are now.”

“These people know my reputation,” Harry says. “They won’t be pleased to see me.”

“I know some of your former students will be,” Albus says. “You were a good teacher, despite what anyone might have said otherwise.”

Harry’s eyes light up at this reminder. “I forgot—I taught some of the Order! I’m sold; I’m coming to the meeting. When is it?”

“Right now, in fact,” Albus says. “They’re gathering downstairs as we speak.”

Harry's smile fades. “I should’ve known you planned this,” he says.

“Of course you should,” Albus says before turning and leaving the room.

Harry follows him down the stairs, and is about to follow the Headmaster into the kitchen when the delightful shrieks of Walburga Black echo throughout the hall. While two people—Harry has forgotten their names, to his dismay—struggle to close her curtains, Harry sighs loudly before turning to face the portrait.

He had never met Walburga in person, but he knows that he will be undoubtedly a familiar face to the portrait if what the Blacks ever told him were true—that Walburga almost _worshipped_ him. He gently pushes the other people out of the way before taking his place in front of the portrait and fixing Walburga Black with a vicious glare.

Upon seeing Harry’s face, the portrait goes quiet and smiles delightfully, coquettishly, before continuing to speak in a still painfully loud voice. “Oh, I beg your pardon, Mr Smith. I am so sorry you have to deal with so much _filth_ in the noble house of my fathers. You are correcting this situation, aren’t you? My poor home—it’s being taken over by Mudbloods and blood-traitors and scum!”

Harry grits his teeth before assuming a superior expression. “I can see that,” he says. “Madam, I would appreciate some quiet. It is bad enough without your shrieks.”

“Oh, my apologies,” the portrait says obsequiously. “As long as you remedy this travesty, what you wish, I shall provide. You have some ink on your nose, by the way.” The portrait falls quiet, and Harry easily tugs the curtains close.

He turns around to face the two people he _knows_ he should recognise. Albus is standing by the doorway with a wry grin on his face as the two individuals in front of him slowly lose their colour as they recognise who Harry is.

“Are you—” one begins.

“Yes?” Harry asks absent-mindedly, desperately trying to remember who these people are. He _knows_ them. Then it clicks. “Oh! You’re Dedalus Diggle, aren’t you?” he says the one who had tried to address him. “And you’re Hestia Jones! I remember now!”

The two take a step back. _They helped me leave the Dursleys in 1995_ , Harry recalls.

“Yes,” Hestia says cautiously. “That’s us. And aren’t you Harry Smith?”

Albus interrupts. “He’s on our side,” Albus says. “And I’ll tell you more in the meeting. Let’s go into the kitchen, now?”

The two of them slink off to the kitchen, whispering to each other. Albus turns to Harry and smiles gently. “Thank you for dealing with Walburga,” Albus says. “You have a magic touch.”

Harry shrugs. “Not for any good reason. And the Order is going to be terrified of me.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

Harry sighs. “No,” he says. “But I wish that people would take a moment to remember that I’m more than the Contortionist—that I was found innocent, for _good reason_.”

“People rarely believe facts,” Albus says. “They believe the lies that make them feel comfortable about the world they want to live in.”

“And that’s what will doom us all,” Harry says. He gestures in front of him. “Let’s do this so we can get back and destroy the locket.”


	13. The Natural Order of Things

“I’d like to introduce you to our new member,” Albus says at the beginning of the meeting. “I trust him with my life—Harry Smith.”

Albus gestures to Harry, who stands and gives an abbreviated half-bow.

“Professor Smith?” Tonks asks in bewilderment. Harry taught her in 1989. “What are _you_ doing here?”

Mad-Eye Moody gives Harry a single glance before narrowing his eyes. “Albus—you know who this is?”

“I do,” Albus says calmly.

“And you know he’s the Contortionist?” Moody says cooly. The kitchen bursts into panicked whispers, and the people standing close to Harry try to edge away without Harry noticing.

Harry pretends it doesn’t hurt, but he no longer lies to himself.

“I do,” Albus says. “And I also know he used to be Voldemort’s apprentice.”

The murmurs turn into outright panic.

“Not Professor Smith!” Tonks says loudly. “He’s a good man!”

“But he’s a Dark Wizard!” someone cries. “He can’t be trusted!”

“Why don’t you just give them everything, Albus,” Harry mutters under his breath, crossing his arms and leaning against the cabinet behind him.

“I trust him with my life,” Albus repeats, silencing the crowd with a wave of his wand. “And if something were to happen to me—command of the Order will pass to Harry Smith’s hands.”

“Albus—” Harry says, shocked.

“You don’t have the right to call him by name!” Someone says. “You’re a murderer!”

Harry closes his eyes in frustration.

“Please, let me say something,” Harry says without raising his voice. He knows he will be heard—if he uses his magic _just this way_ then it seeps through the noise and everyone will notice.

“What do you have to say for yourself, Death Eater?” someone spits.

Harry slowly rolls up his sleeves. “I am no Death Eater,” he begins. “I am a Dark Wizard—I cannot deny it any more than you can deny the existence of the sun.”

“Then why should we trust you?” Hestia Jones says.

“Because Dark doesn’t mean evil,” Harry says. “Dark Magic can be horrendous—I know that first-hand. It has the potential to be more dangerous and more deadly and more awful than Light Magic could ever be. But it also has potential to do good. It can protect. It can heal wounds that Light Magic cannot.”

“But we want Dark Magic to be outlawed,” someone says.

“We don’t,” Albus Dumbledore says to Harry’s unending shock. Somehow— _somehow_ —Albus decided to change his entire viewpoint on Dark Magic almost overnight.“We want it to be _regulated_.”

“And that’s the key point here,” Harry says, jumping into the conversation, refusing to let Albus back down from this statement. “Regulation does not mean prohibition. It means only using what can be safely used, only allowing that which can lead to further growth. We have rules, we have laws—that’s what we want for Dark Magic. We want to prevent destruction, desolation. But because so many people are ignorant of what Dark Magic is, they want it _prohibited_. And that is devastating for people like me, people who are unable to control their affinity for Dark Magic. It’s devastating for the health of our world.”

Harry takes a deep breath, knowing that everyone is glued to his words. “I _was_ the Dark Lord’s apprentice, but it was the only place where I could learn how to use Dark Magic. I hated the Dark Lord—I hated what he did, but I needed to learn _my_ magic. I will admit that I am called the Contortionist. But I never killed a single soul on a raid—the Contortionist was an Illusionist, and all of his victims were imaginary.”

Uneasiness spread through the assembled group.

“I’m not perfect—not by any means, but I want Voldemort gone. I want him destroyed. I know how to destroy him, and having spent so much time with him means he trusts me, and won’t expect me to destroy him. I’m your best chance.”

“Why do you want to destroy him?” someone asks— _Luke Ridley_. Ian McAllen stands beside him. Luke looks stony, but Ian smiles when Harry meets his eyes.

Harry’s face twitches into a smile before returning to its blank state. “He’s killed my parents, destroyed our world. His philosophies are _wrong_ —many reasons, to be honest.”

Albus looks at Harry with a question Harry can easily read, _do you give me permission to tell them who you are?_

Harry shrugs. _It’s up to you_.

Albus clears his throat. “There’s another reason why I trust Harry Smith.”

The attention leaves Harry and returns to Albus.

“I figured you had reasons,” Tonks says. “Professor Smith couldn’t have taught at Hogwarts without your trust first.”

“Yes,” Albus says, ignoring the fact that he had no idea who Harry was until recently.

Moody snorts. “Sure,” he says bitterly, obviously not over the time he was kept inside a trunk for most of the 1994-1995 school year.

Albus looks at Moody. “You were impersonated _after_ the rigorous checks. I had no reason to believe you weren’t who you were.”

“Then what about that awful Umbridge woman?” Mrs Weasley says.

“I had no control over that matter,” Albus says regretfully. “In fact, her presence was actually delayed due to Harry, here. He taught at Hogwarts instead of her in 1989.”

“Shame you couldn’t have taught again,” Mrs Weasley sniffs. “She tortured Harry Potter, did you know?”

Harry bites his tongue to prevent him from smiling. “I’m aware, yes.”

“It’s not funny!” Mrs Weasley says. “He’s scarred—his hand will never recover!”

“I know,” Harry says. “Scars aren’t as easily healed as wounds.”

“Have you seen it?” Mrs Weasley says, leaning in curiously. “How on earth have _you_ met Harry?”

Albus grins. “Ah, and that is the reason why I trust him.” Preparing himself for the announcement, Harry draws himself back smaller against the cabinets for a few strengthening breaths while Albus stands straighter. “Harry Smith is Harry Potter!”

Chaos erupts.

“You’re joking!”

“It’s true,” Harry says quietly—his voice again being infused with Dark Magic—before stepping out in front of the Order. “I was born Harry Potter. But I am known now as Harry Smith.”

“How is this possible?”

“Time-travel,” someone says. “Accidentally, of course.”

It is Severus Snape. Harry raises his hand by his side in acknowledgement. Severus nods his head half-heartedly.

“How do _you_ know?” someone else asks hostilely.

“Because he time-travelled to when _I_ was in Hogwarts,” Severus sneers. “He’s _my_ age now.”

Ian and Luke look shocked.

“But—but what happened to _our_ Harry?” Mrs Weasley asks.

“He’s gone,” Harry says. “ _I’m_ that Harry.”

“But you’re a Dark Wizard!” Dedalus Diggle cries.

Harry shrugs. “Not my fault.”

“You were You-Know-Who’s apprentice!”

“Not by choice,” Harry says coolly. “You try telling Voldemort _no_.”

A few chuckles, but the tension in the room is still thick.

“Albus—did you know about this?” Hestia Jones asks.

“Not until recently, I’m afraid,” Albus says. “But now that I know, everything makes a lot more sense.”

“How was the noodling?” Mr Weasley says, eager. “It was zucchini, of course, if it was accidental, right?”

Harry sighs. “Yes, it was a zucchini noodling.”

“Fascinating,” Mr Weasley mutters to himself. “Truly, fascinating. How would you rate the experience?”

“For Merlin’s sake—the noodling doesn’t matter,” Harry says with blatant irritation. “What matters is that I _am_ Harry Potter. I know how to end Voldemort, and I will. Albus and I are working together, and before this year is over, Voldemort will be destroyed.”

“I believe him,” a voice says from the back of the room. Harry looks towards it, trying to figure out who it came from. Seeing who it is shocks him. It’s Professor Whitby, from twenty years ago. “He was a good student. A good kid. He’s not a bad person.” Harry smiles at her, and nods gratefully.

“Well, _I_ don’t trust you,” Moody says. “You were the Contortionist, and it was only because of the Death Eater lawyer that you weren’t put in Azkaban.”

“Oh, you mean Ptolemy Carrow?” Harry says. “I thought he was the Ministry-provided solicitor.”

“With a last name of Carrow?” Moody scoffs. “He was a Death Eater.”

Harry raises an eyebrow. “He didn’t _act_ like one. They’re typically terrified of me.”

Moody purses his lips, unsatisfied. “I don’t trust you,” he repeats. “Albus can, but I think he’s being a fool. You’re too Dark to be any good.”

Harry shrugs. “Your choice, I guess. But I’m working for you guys—no, I’m working _with_ you guys, whether you like it or not.”

“Harry has my complete trust,” Albus says. “And if you choose not to trust him, then I hope you may learn he is trustworthy.”

Harry turns to Albus. “I know you have a lot more to talk about, but since half of your members don’t really believe I am who I say I am right now, would you be terribly offended if I went back to dispose of this object we found?”

“Take Severus with you,” Albus says. “I don’t want anyone dealing with them alone.”

“Understood,” Harry says. “Severus, you coming?”

Severus nods gravely, and then follows Harry out of the room. As soon as they exit the kitchen, it erupts into sound—angry, disbelieving, some furious and others cracking with tears—and Harry winces.

“That went well,” Severus drawls. “Who had that idea?”

“Albus,” Harry says. “But I didn’t argue with him. He wanted to give people hope. But I don’t think he remembers how _terrified_ people are of me—of the Contortionist—of what I meant for the Death Eaters. I was _their_ hope. The Order probably thinks I’m going to betray them and that I’ve fooled Albus completely.”

“He’s not an easy man to fool,” Severus points out.

“I know,” Harry agrees.

“But it’s easier to think that than believe a hard truth,” Severus finishes.

“Undoubtedly,” Harry says. “Meet you in Albus’s office?”

Severus nods once, and then Harry vanishes through the floo.

When Severus emerges in Dumbledore’s office, Harry is taking the sword down from its place behind Albus’s desk.

“I think you should do the honors this time,” Harry says as he hands Severus the sword.

“What do I do?” Severus asks, gingerly grasping the handle. He’s clumsy with the sword—it’s an awkward thing to hold, Severus realises—and he can just tell that Harry is thoroughly enjoying seeing his discomfort.

“Just stab the thing, I guess,” Harry says after being courteous enough not to comment.

“Just _stab_ it?” Severus asks, feeling a bit taken aback. “That’s all you have to say?”

Harry shrugs. “I mean, I’ve undone the magic on the locket—so you just have to stab it.”

Severus looks at Harry sceptically. “You know, sometimes I think you’re far too overpowered for any good reason except to make climatic occasions less climatic,” Severus drawls.

Harry blinks. “I’m sorry? I mean,” Harry rubs his neck. “I’ve been exclusively trained by the Dark Lord, and he taught me pretty much everything he knew, so when I recognised the ill-intent ward on the locket, I figured that I would cancel it to prevent us from harm?”

Severus shakes his head. “But you have a cure-all spell,” Severus points out. “You don’t even seem to _struggle_ with magic.”

Harry blushes. “Okay, I’ll be the first to admit that is a bit ridiculous—but—but I wanted to look cool _,_ okay?”

“Are you saying it doesn’t exist?” Severus exclaims. “That charm—the _casa_ or whatever—”

“ _Skaza—_ ”

“—isn’t _real_?” Severus finishes, ignoring Harry’s correction.

“No! That _is_ real! But—but it’s more complicated than that!” Harry says with a faint blush. “There’s a lot of theory involved and—”

“What theory?” Severus scoffs.

“I know I _call_ it a panacea charm, but it’s _not_ , okay? It actually fails a lot, but I want people to think I’m just—” Harry stops talking and stamps his foot childishly. “I cast other spells silently if it doesn’t work okay!”

And then Severus can do nothing else but laugh—because here is Harry Smith—Lord Voldemort’s apprentice—who desperately wants to be thought of as competent.

“Why are you laughing?” Harry’s embarrassment is blatantly plastered in every single gesture.

“Because the idea that _you_ ,” Severus says between laughs, “want to look _impressive_ is hilarious.”

“Why?” Harry asks, hurt.

“You already _are_!”

Harry struggles for words for several moments before making a frustrated sound. “Just stab the locket!”

But Severus doesn’t. He stands there and takes a deep breath. “We need to reconcile our friendship,” Severus says. “And I want to do it before I destroy the horcrux.”

Harry grimaces, but nods. “We left on bad terms,” says Harry. “And I’m sorry about that. I regretted it, when I was gone.”

Severus looks at his hands carefully. “I hate to admit it, but I felt betrayed,” he says. “You were the one thing I knew I could depend on, and then you just suddenly _left_.”

“It was sudden,” Harry agrees.

“I think if I had more time to prepare,” Severus starts before shaking his head. “I’m not sure. I feel like there’s no right way to explain what I’m trying to say. I just—I feel like when you left, you were purposefully abandoning our friendship and couldn’t be bothered to give me a worthy explanation?”

Harry thinks about this for several seconds. “You’re partially right,” he admits. “I left so abruptly that I didn’t really explain what was going on—and I’m not sure if you know _now_ what the situation was that caused me to leave. Would explaining it help?”

Severus shakes his head. “It was so long ago that I don’t think rehashing it will help anymore.”

“I am sorry, though,” Harry says. “I said unforgivable things.”

“We both did,” Severus says with a shrug.

“That doesn’t excuse my behaviour though,” Harry protests. “I just—I just want you to know that I’m sorry. I’m truly sorry for the pain I’ve caused you these past years and I hope that even if our friendship can never truly recover, that we can at least put the past behind us, and try to start over.”

“Can we even?” Severus asks. “You’re planning on going back to wherever you went after this is done.”

And then Harry hesitates, because Severus is right. He _is_ planning on returning to Toronto, to his new home, to his new friends. Is saving this friendship even worth it, when they both know Harry will be leaving, and that their ability to stay in contact will be severely reduced and increasingly challenged when he departs? Harry struggles to find words.

“I think,” he finally says, “that the good times we have had outweigh the pain we have inflicted on each other.”

Severus folds his arms across his chest, waiting for Harry to continue. He fumbles with the sword, forgetting he was holding it, so he returns his arms to his side.

“And I’m not saying that we can ignore that,” Harry continues, “—no, we can’t—but I think that I will always value you as a close friend. The past years have been difficult because I haven’t _had_ that. I don’t want to lose our friendship and the history we have because of an argument, you know? And we’ve been acting like friends, the past couple days, and hasn’t that been nice? It’s been like old times.”

Severus blinks slowly before nodding once. “I have appreciated having _you_ back. Your younger self was incorrigible; I have no idea how we became friends in the first place, to be honest.”

Harry restrains his smile. “You _are_ really nice, you know?”

Severus scowls. “Must you continue saying that?”

“I will for as long as it’s true,” Harry says. “And—thank you, for not giving up on me. I appreciate it. Also, for making sure I didn’t die as a kid.”

“You have no idea how much work it took. I hated every second of it,” Severus says bitterly.

“I know,” Harry consoles. “I did as well.”

They stand there, assessing each other. Harry extends his hand. Severus shakes it once, and then promptly destroys the locket horcrux.

When Albus returns, he finds Severus and Harry sipping tea with extended pinkies, their noses raised and talking in poorly-done posh accents.

“Nay, I speaketh words of truth!” Severus says before recognising Albus, blushing brightly, and then setting his teacup down with a clatter. He straightens and tries to act like Albus did not walk in on a faux tea party.

“Albus,” Harry acknowledges, taking his time in setting his tea down. “Welcome back! I hope the meeting went well?”

“For the most part, yes, thank you,” Albus says. “I trust you two occupied your time well?”

“The horcrux has been destroyed,” Severus says as he forces his face into a blank expression. “The remains are on your desk.”

“I can see that,” Albus says, noting that the locket is indeed on his desk. In fact, it is still pierced with the sword of Gryffindor, which happens to also be piercing his desk, pinning the locket in place.

“Sorry about your desk,” Severus says. “But you somehow managed to stain it—however could that have happened?”

Albus, unamused, stares at Severus. “Yes,” he says, “how on earth could that have happened?”

“Anyways!” Harry interjects. “The locket is destroyed! That means we have only three more to go!”

Albus sits himself down in his chair, carefully avoiding the giant sword in the middle of his desk. He is tempted to check underneath his desk to see if the sword managed to go through the entire wooden slab, but he feels the action would be uncouth. He decides to _not_ sit under the desk. He pushes his chair back so his legs are left out in the open.

“Hufflepuff’s cup, Ravenclaw’s diadem and then—” Harry pauses for several moments before continuing, “Then _something_.”

“It could be anything,” Severus groans. “A pretty rock?”

“No—he would use something more valuable; he values his soul too much to use something so _ordinary_ ,” Harry says.

“Then what could it possibly be? His _snake_?” Severus says sarcastically.

“Actually,” Harry muses, “I bet it is! He would totally make his snake into a horcrux—especially since he knows that living horcruxes are possible!”

“You’re joking,” Severus says.

“No, I think you really are right,” Harry says, growing excited. “His snake—what’s it’s name, again? It’s on the tip of my tongue—it starts with an N. Naga? Nini? Naganini?”

“Nagini,” Albus offers.

“That’s it! I am _positive_ Nagini’s a horcrux. Don’t you remember how I had that vision—of the Hall of Prophecy? Of Nagini biting Arthur?” Harry says. “There’s _no_ way that could’ve happened if she wasn’t a horcrux. Brilliant!”

“I do believe I had already told you this,” Albus points out. “In our meetings this year.”

Harry looks at Albus incredulously. “Those were twenty years ago!”

Albus huffs indignantly. “Well, why didn’t you ask me if I had any idea? I’m not some bumbling old fool who is completely incompetent! I am a capable wizard, after all.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry says. “I just—I got carried away, I suppose.”

“You certainly did,” Albus sighs. “Regardless, is there anything _else_ you’ve forgotten about this year?”

Harry shrugs. “There’s probably a lot I’ve forgotten about. I mean—wasn’t Draco Malfoy being all odd?”

Severus suddenly loses his colour.“Albus, what do we do about that?”

“Oh, so you knew the entire time?” Harry asks.

“I made an Unbreakable Vow to complete his task if he failed to do it,” Severus rubs his arms. “His task is to kill Dumbledore.”

“That’s not good,” Harry furrows his eyebrows. “Why did you do that?”

Severus raises his hands in a helpless gesture as if to say _What else was I supposed to do? Say no?_

“Albus, you can’t think that this is a good idea,” Harry continues.

“I’m afraid this is our only choice,” Albus tries to lean forward, only to remember the sword in the middle of his desk before changing motion halfway through, appearing as if he is doing an odd shimmy. “I’ve lived a good life, and I would be honoured to lose it to save another’s.”

“But that’s not _fair_!” Harry exclaims. “You should be able to live for as long as your natural life allows!”

“Sometimes we must make sacrifices,” Albus emphasised.

“But you can’t do that to Severus,” Harry insists. “You can’t make him _kill_ you!”

Albus looks to Severus, who is sitting so still that he almost appears like stone. “Severus, you know that I don’t want you to have to do this, but there is no other way.”

“No other way? You’ve got to be pulling my leg” Harry scoffs. “There’s _plenty_ of ways, and Severus wouldn’t have to lay a hand on you.”

“There are no ways around an Unbreakable Vow,” Albus reminds Harry.

Harry’s shoulders fall and Harry slumps back into his chair. “You’re right,” he says. “But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

“No one is asking you to,” Albus consoles.

“We can at least stop Malfoy from doing anything worse. What are his plans?” Harry asks. “Do you know how he’s planning on doing it?”

“No,” Severus snarls. “He’s refusing to tell me.”

“Then let’s just _find out_. We’ll follow him. It shouldn’t be too difficult,” Harry says.

Albus sighs and shakes his head. “I don’t approve of this,” he says. “But I know I can’t stop you, so I won’t even bother.”

Harry grimaces. “You’re right,” Harry says. “I’m sorry.”

Albus waves it off. “Don’t bother. I know you mean well.”

Severus snorts. “And that’s what will kill us all,” he says.

They find Draco Malfoy in the Room of Requirement. To their fortune, Draco Malfoy had decided to stay at Hogwarts over the Easter holiday to work on his task.

“Why are you here?” Malfoy says, frantic, when he sees Harry and Severus.

“Looking for you,” Harry says. “What are you up to?”

“Nothing,” Malfoy spits.

Harry raises an eyebrow. He exchanges a look with Severus that says _leave this to me_ before saying, “I’m checking on the task our Lord gave you.”

“Who are you?” Malfoy says defensively.

Severus coughs. “The Dark Lord’s apprentice.”

Malfoy takes a step back subconsciously. “I thought—but—you’ve vanished!”

Harry shrugs. “Vanished, not vanished—it doesn’t matter. What are you doing, and what are your plans?”

Terrified, Malfoy explains how he is fixing the vanishing cabinet to bring Death Eaters into the castle. Harry listens to his plan, admits that it is actually a very good plan, then decides it cannot continue.

“I hate it,” Harry says, and he destroys the vanishing cabinet.

Malfoy shrieks in horror. “How could you do that?” He shouts.

“Easily,” Harry shrugs.

“He’ll kill me!” Malfoy says gripping his hair with his hands.

“Eh,” Harry says. “I doubt it.”

Harry turns around and starts walking around the room, full of strange objects. There was something here— _familiar_. Not the fact that he had been here twenty years earlier. No, something familiar in an otherworldly sense. He just had to find it.

“You don’t know that!” Malfoy runs up behind Harry, almost stepping on his shoes.

“Actually, I do,” Harry turns to look at him. He’s so _small_ —not in height, no, but he looks so _young_ still. God, he looked like that once. Not so… blonde, or pointy, but _young_.

“How?” Malfoy takes a step back, realising how close he is.

“Because he doesn’t care about you,” Harry rolls his eyes. “He’s not actually _depending_ on you for anything. You’re a kid.”

“But he trusted me with this task!” Malfoy stares Harry down.

Harry sighs. “Listen, kid,” he says, trying not to show how delighted he is that he just called Malfoy _kid_. “I think I know our Lord better than you do. Do you even _want_ to do what he asked you to do?”

Malfoy hesitates for the first time. “I—”

“Yeah, you don’t. And that’s fine. We’ll take you to a safe place, if you’re worried he’s actually going to kill you,” Harry waves his hand dismissively. “Now, there’s something here that I’m pretty sure we need.”

Severus doesn’t say anything but raises his eyebrow.

“Don’t look at me like that, Severus,” Harry snaps. “I’m serious. There’s something here.”

Severus shakes his head and then decides to just go along with it. “Fine,” he says. “Let’s find this weird thing. Do you even know what it is?”

When Harry doesn’t answer immediately, Severus groans to Draco’s shock. “Great,” Severus says. “This is hopeless.”

Harry sniffs. “I’ll just take a look around. You don’t have to bother with anything if you don’t want to.”

Severus shrugs. “Perfect. I’ll stay here and watch Draco.” He sits down on the ground where he was standing.

Draco Malfoy stiffens as Harry vanishes behind a pile of teetering chairs.

“I don’t need to be watched,” Draco says

“With Smith around, you do,” Severus snorts. “He’s an explosion waiting to happen.”

“Why did he destroy…” Draco trails off, gesturing to the now ruined cabinet.

“Because you’re not responsible for the task you were given. You shouldn’t have been given such an audacious task in the first place, and you’re far too young to be involved anyways.”

“I’m old enough to make my own choices!” Draco spits.

“You’re a child,” Severus says dismissively. “You’re not old enough; Merlin, _I_ wasn’t old enough when I made the choice.”

“How old were you?” asks Draco.

“Older than you. I was seventeen. That used to be the cut-off.” Severus says.

“When did it change?”

“The first one? That was Smith,” Severus waves his hand in the direction where the sound of tumbling furniture and shattering glass is coming from. “He was sixteen. But he’s not marked, so he doesn’t really count.”

“He’s not _marked_?” Draco’s eyes widen. “How is that _possible_? _Everyone_ is marked!”

“Everyone but his apprentice,” Severus says. “It’s a privilege. It allows him greater movement, and theoretically should have made him a perfect spy.”

“Theoretically?”

“He could care less about the Dark Lord’s cause,” Severus says, shaking his head.

“And the Dark Lord is _okay_ with that?” Draco asks in disbelief.

“You haven’t seen him in action,” Severus says. “Your opinion will change instantly. Anyone would want him on their side, just so he’s not on the other.”

“I found it!” A voice cries out from the distance.

Severus stands up. “Trust me, Draco, you don’t need to kill Dumbledore.”

“What about my family?” Draco asks.

“We’ll protect them,” Severus says. “Somehow.”

Draco is about to respond when Harry comes around the corner holding a diadem.

“Is that what I think it is?” Severus looks at Harry with exhausted eyes.

“Shall I destroy it this time?” Harry lifts the diadem to look at in the light. “I thought it would be bigger, you know.”

“Don’t _play_ with it!” Severus exclaims.

“Hey, I have it under control,” Harry looks at Severus askance. “So, are we using the sword or fire?”

“If we use the sword, we have to talk with Albus again,” Severus points out.

Harry makes a disgusted face. “No, thank you,” he says. “Fire it is. Please back up.”

Harry uses his wand to clear a space on the floor of the room while Severus pulls a questioning Draco several metres away. Harry stares at the diadem and with a look of absolute concentration, points his wand at the diadem, and Fiendfyre pours out of his wand and consumes the diadem. Draco scrambles backwards in horror, but as soon as the diadem is devoured, Harry flicks his wand, and the flames vanish instantly.

Harry springs back to his relaxed state. “That was fun!” he says. “I haven’t used Fiendfyre in a while!”

“You’re mad,” Draco says. “You’re—you’re completely mad.”

Harry shrugs. “Old news.” He turns to Severus. “Two left, then he’s gone for good. We’re almost there.”


	14. Blackmail

“How are we going to get the cup?” asks Severus, interrupting Albus’s rant on unethical spell-casting. Albus discovered how the diadem was destroyed and was displeased. Fiendfyre, despite its effectiveness, is not approved for school use. 

“Yes,” Harry is quick to agree, having gotten tired of the fierce reprimand he had received from Dumbledore. “Let’s talk about that.”

Dumbledore, still fuming over the fact that Harry cast _Fiendfyre_ , of all things, in the presence of a _child_ , sighs. “Can we use an _ethical_ approach this time?” Albus says to the ceiling of his office, causing Harry to bristle.

“I’m sure Malfoy has seen worse,” Harry says, rolling his eyes.

Albus, aghast, looks at Harry with widened eyes. “You can’t just assume things like that!”

“Voldemort lives in his house. Fiendfyre on an inanimate object is hardly unethical,” Harry retorts.

Severus interrupts again. “Moving on, yes—where even _is_ the cup?”

Harry pauses in his argument to think about it. “Bloody hell,” he finally says after several moments pass. “I haven’t any idea.”

“Great,” Severus groans. “You’re completely useless.”

Harry ignores this and turns to Albus. “Do you have any ideas?”

Albus grins widely. “You know, I actually know _exactly_ where it is. It’s in the Gringotts vault of Bellatrix Lestrange.”

Harry stares at Albus dumbfounded. “And _how_ do you know that?”

“A little birdie told me,” Albus says and he taps his nose.

“That’s terribly suspicious.” Harry frowns. “I feel like there was supposed to be some dangerous espionage and we would only stumble upon the secret after several weeks of dangerous stalking, in order to avoid the fact that my being the Dark Lord’s apprentice typically always ends up being a magical method to get around all difficulties.”

“You would think that,” Severus agrees.

“But somehow Dumbledore just knows all of the answers, which is a total cheat,” Harry continues, gesticulating wildly. “It’s—it’s like—it’s like we’re in a book, but the person writing it got lazy, and didn’t want to try and figure out how Dumbledore knows this piece of information!”

Severus looks at Harry with raised brows. “You know you’re sounding insane?” 

Harry dismisses this idea with a flop of his hand. “Anyways, I’m just going to ignore the fact that Dumbledore knows this piece of incredibly valuable information and has only now decided to share it—and don’t say you only now decided to trust us, that’s not a real excuse—and ask the question we really want to know: how are we getting the cup _out_ of Gringotts?”

Severus and Albus sit, somewhat rattled from Harry’s rant, before starting to throw out ideas.

“Bribery?” Severus suggests.

“I don’t think the goblins would appreciate that,” Albus says mindfully. “I’ve tried before, when I’ve forgotten my key. I nearly lost my beard!”

“Intimidation, then,” Severus says. Harry shakes his head in the negative.

“That’d end in the same result, I think,” he says.

“Let’s just burn the whole bank down!” Albus says, ignoring Harry’s betrayed expression.

“ _That’s_ ethical?” Harry exclaims. Albus ignores him.

“We could just steal it,” Severus points out. “We could break in, sneak to her vault, and steal it.”

Harry shakes his head again. “That’d be too obvious. Voldemort would become too suspicious if that happened. More ideas, please!”

“Summoning?”

“It doesn’t work like that,” Harry says.

“We could kidnap a goblin,” Severus says. “The cup as ransom.”

Harry’s eyes brighten. “Kidnapping! That’s it!”

“I was only joking!” Severus sits up straighter. “We can’t actually _kidnap_ a _goblin_!”

“Of course we couldn’t! I’m talking about kidnapping Draco Malfoy!” Harry says, delighted.

“But—Bellatrix wouldn’t give us the cup for him,” Severus protests.

“You’re right,” Harry says. “But Narcissa would.”

Understanding blooms over Severus’s face and he nods. “That could work.”

“You can’t kidnap a student!” Albus says.

“We won’t actually kidnap him,” Harry says, confused. “We’ll just _say_ we did. It’ll work.”

“Oh, right. And how do we _pretend_ to _kidnap_ someone?” says Albus sarcastically.

Harry steps out of the office after convincing Albus that kidnapping—or _pretending_ to kidnap—Draco Malfoy would be the best plan moving forward. He leaves Severus to work out the details. Harry needs to talk to his friends—the friends he used to have, when he was a different person, twenty years ago.

He’s in his thirties, but he owes them an explanation. And so when Harry finds himself walking toward Hogwart’s gates in order to apparate to the Burrow—where Hermione and Ron are staying for the rest of the break—Harry becomes increasingly aware that he is terrified.

When he first met with them, he was given a buffer by the presence of Severus and Albus. But his friends deserve to know that their friend is gone. They need to grieve, or process, or do whatever they should do to understand that Harry—that Harry—he’s—

—Harry’s _different_ , now.

He apparates when he reaches Hogwart’s boundaries to find himself on the outskirts of the wards of the Burrow. He knocks three times, asking for entrance.

Bill Weasley exits the Burrow and makes his way to the border. “Can I help you?” he asks.

Harry smiles with the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, I’m here to talk to Ron and Hermione.”

Bill narrows his eyebrows. “And _why_ would you want to talk to them?”

“I’m their friend?” Harry sighs. “If you don’t believe me, you can ask them to come out and verify my identity.”

“I will then,” Bill says slowly, and then walks backwards until he reaches the doorway of the household, never once taking his eyes off Harry before yelling into the doorway. “Ron! Hermione! Some bloke’s here to see you!”

With Bill’s wand still pointed in his direction, Harry makes a show of yawning, showing his lack of concern. Bill is obviously put off by this display, but Harry ignores this and pays attention to the sound of footsteps racing down the stairs, echoing out the doorway and then he sees the youthful faces of his childhood friends.

“Oh!” Hermione says as soon as she seems him. “Let him in!”

“Double check his identity,” Bill reminds.

“What was the first thing I shared with you?” Ron asks.

“A sandwich,” Harry says, his mind flashing back to that very first train ride to Hogwarts. Some memories feel like they were engraved in stone; others in sand.

“What kind?”

“How the hell am I supposed to remember that?”

“Good point,” Ron says. “Do you think that’s good enough?”

Bill, flabbergasted, looks at Ron in disbelief..

Ron shrugs. “It’s him,” Ron says. “Let him in.”

“Nice wards,” Harry says when Bill grants him access. “I’d add a few that are a bit farther out, though, so you get alerted before someone stumbles upon the main scheme.”

Bill blinks once, twice. “And you would know this because?”

Harry extends his hand to Bill. “I worked with Michael Odell for years,” Harry says easily. “Wards are kind of my thing.”

Bill brightens, shaking Harry’s hand vigorously. “Odell! His company is the best for wards! You wouldn’t happen to want to share a few trade secrets?”

Harry laughs. “Ask your parents, and if they agree, I’ll add a couple of my personal favorites.”

“Why wouldn’t they agree?” Bill asks, bewildered.

Ron chokes back a laugh, and Harry restrains a smile. “You should talk to them about it,” he says, and then turns to face his two friends. “Where to?”

“Orchard?” Ron suggests, and when Harry shrugs, he leads the way.

They settle themselves beneath the budding leaves of a few secluded trees. Harry flicks a _muffliato_ around the three of them, and Hermione watches him curiously.

“Okay,” Harry says after taking a deep breath. “We’re alone this time, so you can ask me anything you want.”

“Are you okay?” Hermione instantly asks.

And Harry pauses—out of all of the questions, out of all of the things she could ask—the genuine _concern_ for his wellbeing brings him to tears almost instantly and Harry bites his lips and Harry blinks hard and then he is shaking his head and he is crying— _god_ , he is _crying_ —because _no_ , he is _not okay_.

He’s not okay.

The relief in admitting this to himself—in not lying to himself anymore—is palpable.

“No,” Harry chokes through his tears. “I’m not. And I don’t think I have been for a very long time.”

And then, like nothing has happened, like the years are not separating them, like there is not twenty years and eight murders and countless illusions of mutilated bodies and horrified victims and wicked spells, like this was as if Harry was sixteen again—Hermione has Harry wrapped in a tight hug and she’s crying too and then Ron’s hugging Harry as well and Harry thinks Ron’s crying too and—and—

And Harry finally understands, he finally _gets it_ : this was the moment he had been living for. For twenty years—for _twenty years_ —he had been single-mindedly focused on getting back to 1997, to getting back to his friends. He had prepared himself to the inevitability that his friendship would be destroyed—and perhaps it still will be—but that still doesn’t mean that Harry isn’t _Harry_ and that Hermione and Ron aren’t themselves and that they still have a bond that can transcend decades, transcend time travel and noodling and zucchinis and war and death and even the knowledge that their best friend is someone different—and that knowledge, that relief—that _hope_ —it’s simultaneously tragic and euphoric and Harry feels so _alive_.

Because his friends—Ron and Hermione—they’re _true_ friends. His friendship with Severus is good and helped him through the intervening years—and he will still be friends with Severus in the years to come—but he still will have Ron and Hermione too, no matter how far time takes him away.

And the peace that comes from that, the calm and the silence in his soul that arrives, settles the storm that had been building since 1977.

Harry’s come home.

They talk, for hours, it seems. About everything.

Harry describes how the horcrux took over, how he was so _naive_ and desperate for friendship he allowed himself to start casting Dark Magic, and how that awoke the horcrux, and how that led to its eventual control. He tells them how it felt like he was drowning, banging on the walls, unable to be heard. How he watched himself do these horrible things, how he submitted to Voldemort, called him father—something he’s never told anyone before, not even Severus or his friends in Toronto. How when he awoke, he was terrified and wanted to run. How he knew he needed to make it back home alive, and the only way to do that was by staying alive—staying with Voldemort as his apprentice. How he grew to like Dark Magic—and doesn’t that make him a horrible person?

_No,_ they told him. _No._

And then Harry went on to tell them about how he was able to not get prosecuted— _no Dark Mark, you see?_ —and he tells them about Michael Odell and the years he spent with the man, learning and struggling to stay afloat—the years of stagnancy, of barely living, the years that went by in between. He tells them about how he taught at Hogwarts— _defence, of course_ , Hermione says, _you always were the best_ —and how his students were so terrified of him at first, how he slowly won them over, how he taught them, how he met Quirrell before he went crazy— _did he stutter before You-Know-Who?_ Ron asks to a resounding _no_ —how he accidentally brought Quirrell to Voldemort—how Quirrell became possessed—how he fled Britain—how he lived in Toronto—how he spent his time as a curse breaker there, until only a few days ago, when he returned to the flat he shared with Severus— _he’s actually_ really _nice, you know_ , Harry whispers conspiratorially—and how he spent the last two days, destroying the locket and diadem.

And his friends listen— _god_ , his _friends_ —and they listen to him and they have the audacity to laugh so hard they cry when they learn Harry was sorted into Hufflepuff because staying alive _wasn’t ambitious enough_ and he was too frightened of what had happened to go into Gryffindor.

“To be honest though,” Hermione says, “it’s probably for the best you were in Hufflepuff—imagine if you had to share a dorm with your parents, or with Professor Snape.”

And then Harry tells them of how Severus is actually one of his closest friends—and they listen and they’re furious with the man for being so awful all the time, and Harry knows that they don’t really believe him when he says that they have a good friendship, but the fact that they’re listening is worth more than anything right now.

And then Harry tells them of Sue and Maggie and Paul and Vishnu and Raúl in Toronto and how they’re like his family, and how he wants to go back to be with them— _I’m glad you had friends,_ Hermione says and then Ron nods and says, _you deserve some happiness_ —and he can tell that they think that these friendships are clearly of higher worth than the one he has with Severus, but he doesn’t mind.

Because despite the fact that he’s twenty years older than them, despite the fact that he’s clearly aged, despite the fact that he’s an adult—he’s _grown up_ , left his friends behind—oh, _god_ , he has, hasn’t he?—they still want to be _his_ friend. They still don’t want to let go of the fact that Harry’s quite frankly outgrown them. He’s—he doesn’t want to be cruel, but it’s true, isn’t it? The fact that their friendship will _never_ be the same.

It is nice to imagine, but Harry will not lie to himself.

So he enjoys this time with them—this beautiful sunset in the orchard behind the Burrow with his childhood friends, and he reminisces while they remember and he feels something sweet—something strange—and then he realises it, he understands, _finally_ , he feels at peace.

That’s the absolution he sought here, by coming to the Burrow; a way to reconcile the fact that he is no longer the person his friends knew, that he cannot be that person for them anymore, that he cannot pretend, but he would like to imagine.

But Harry has grown apart—he—he—

He’s changed.

But this friendship? It’s more of a—it’s not something that can be described in words.

He knows it doesn’t work right, but it reminds him of a Laotong relationship—“old-sames”—a precious friendship—one that would be unbreakable throughout their lives, no matter how far away the world might take them. And it _had_ taken them far away—but it would be indestructible. He feels he has that sort of relationship with Ron and Hermione. He might never have the same childlike ease with them after this evening, but he knows that no matter what will happen in the future that they will always be there for each other, no matter the circumstances.

It’s a joyous feeling, Harry understands, to have friends like this. But Harry can’t help his overwhelming feelings of devastation, the sorrow, and the grief.

The loss of the years they could have had together—the years they _should_ have had if not for the noodling, if not for the time-travel.

As if they can read his mind, though, Ron puts a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Don’t get caught up thinking about what _should_ have happened. Don’t think like that—you’ll just torture yourself.”

Harry takes a deep breath. “You’re right,” he says with a smile. “Thank you.”

Ron—the ever kind Ron—nods his head and takes back his hand. But before it’s halfway back to resting at his side, Ron decides to instead wrap Harry in a hug. “I’m so glad you’re okay.”

“Me too.” Harry finds himself agreeing. “Me too.”

The night is too cold to stay outside, and they convince Harry to visit with Ron’s family. Harry agrees reluctantly, and follows them inside.

Molly Weasley is on the sofa with a large yarn disaster on her lap. She’s trying to untangle the mess with her wand, but when she hears the door swing close, her head whips upward and her eyes settle on the duo with an unfamiliar figure behind them. It takes her a second for her to process who she’s seeing until she jumps to her feet, dropping the yarn to the floor where it makes a suspicious squelching sound, and exclaims, “Harry! Oh, how are you doing?”

“Hi mum,” Ron says as his mother walks right past him and gives Harry a hug without waiting for a response.

“I’m so sorry for not believing you yesterday! I was just so shocked, I couldn’t process it correctly.” Mrs Weasley squeezes Harry.

“That’s fine,” Harry squeaks. “But hello, how are you?”

“Oh, I’m doing just fine, but you know that!” Mrs Weasley says.

“Actually,” Harry says. “It’s been twenty years for me, Mrs Weasley. I can’t remember.”

Mrs Weasley takes a step back and covers her mouth with her hand. “You mean—you mean when you went back in time—“

“I had to live through the years, one after the other, to get back to this point in time,” Harry finishes. “Yes. I’m thirty-six.”

“You poor thing,” Mrs Weasley says after choking back tears. “I can’t imagine how difficult that must have been.”

Harry smiles faintly. “It wasn’t easy,” he agrees. “But here I am.”

“Come, come sit down. Ron, go get something for Harry to drink. Is water fine? Our kettle is broken,” Mrs Weasley says as she ushers Harry to the comfiest chair in the room.

Harry feels incredibly uncomfortable as Mrs Weasley then summons her entire family with a loud shout and they all crowd into the room. It looks like the entire family is visiting except for Mr Weasley, who’s likely at the Ministry.

“This is Harry,” Mrs Weasley introduces. “He’s gone and noodled himself.”

_How does everyone know about the noodling?_

Fred and George look at each other mischievously. “What _type_ of noodling?” George asks.

“Zucchini,” Harry says tiredly, resigning himself to the fact that he will never resolve the mystery of the noodling.

George nods wisely.

Mrs Weasley loses all her colour and she spins from her seat to glare at her twin sons. “You didn’t have anything to do with this, did you?”

They raise their hands in their air—innocent. Harry lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He doesn’t know what he would have done had he learned that it had all been due to a prank gone wrong. Probably destroyed the house.

“We didn’t do anything, we swear,” Fred says. “What kind of monsters do you think we are?”

Mrs Weasley only shakes her head before moving on. “Well—you know the twins, of course—but this is Bill, my eldest, and Charlie, and—”

“Mrs Weasley, I’ve met your whole family before; I haven’t forgotten them,” Harry interjects. “I even taught Charlie Defence for a year.”

Charlie nods. “You went by Smith,” he says. “You taught my sixth year.”

Harry nods. “You were good.”

Charlie blinks a few times. “I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact that you’re supposed to be my little brother’s best friend.”

Harry grimaces. “Yeah, so—”

“I don’t want to sound like I’m accusing you of anything,” Mrs Weasley interrupts, “but are you even—even _interested_ in being their friends anymore? You’re twenty years older than them now.”

Ron blanches. “Mum! You can’t just _say_ things like that!”

Mrs Weasley turns to face her youngest son. “Yes, I can! I’m worried about you, and I know you want your best friend back, and I’m sure he’s been missing you desperately as well, but this isn’t a fairy tale! Things don’t just _work out_ with a wave of your wand! You can’t just go right back to being best friends with people twenty years younger than them when there’s that much of a difference in experience and age—he’s been through things you simply can’t relate to anymore! He’s _done_ things _none of us_ can relate to!”

A pervasive silence fills the room until the chair Harry’s sitting in creaks when he shifts his weight. “Well,” he says, “I think that there’s a lot to unpack here, so let’s start with the elephant in the room. Yes, I’m technically Lord Voldemort’s apprentice. I’m what you would call a Dark Wizard, and I’ve _definitely_ done things no one should ever think about doing.”

Bill leans back against the wall where he is standing. “What’s the worst thing you’ve done?”

“Bill!” Ron hisses. “You can’t just _ask_ that!”

Bill waves a hand dismissively. “Yeah, but I think we’re past being polite right now, aren’t we?”

Harry nods. “You were the closest thing I had to family when I was a kid. I owe you some honesty.” He takes a deep breath, and looks down at his hands before staring directly into Bill’s eyes. “The worst thing I’ve done is kill someone because they gave me a scratch.”

If the room was uncomfortable before, it is now completely frigid. “You’ve _what_?” a voice from the corner asks quietly--not harshly, not angrily, but sadly, mournfully, tearfully—Ginny.

“I regret it more than anything,” Harry says. “But yes, that’s the worst thing I’ve done.”

Bill nods solemnly. “And then what’s the best thing you’ve done?”

Harry looks at Bill blankly.

And then his mind is racing— _racing_ —through the last twenty years—what has he done, what has he _done_ that he is _proud_ of—what is he proud of— _what is he_ _proud of_ —

—and he can’t come up with anything. There’s the time he taught the Patronus charm to the Seventh Year NEWT students at Hogwarts, but that’s not good enough to outweigh the wrongs he’s committed—he helped ward the homes of over a hundred individuals—but that’s not good enough either. What has he done that is _good_? Has he left a positive mark on this world? Has he only left stains? Has he only left scars?

What has he done that is good?

He’s destroying the horcruxes, yes, but that’s not _good_ , that’s his repentance, that’s his absolution, that’s his atonement; that’s the bare minimum to atone for his sins; has he done anything beyond that? Has he gone beyond that step in trying to improve the world in the past twenty years? He hasn’t made any changes that improved his life. He was Severus Snape’s friend—but is that the best thing he’s done? But then he abandoned him for almost six years, so he’s not a very good friend, if one at all. His friends in Toronto have offered him acceptance, but he’s not sure if their easy acknowledgement that he isn’t the same as he once was is enough.

So what has he done that he’s proud of? What is the _best thing_ he’s done?

He doesn’t have an answer.

He shrugs. “I don’t know,” he says quietly. “I’m not proud of much. But I hope to be better.”

The Burrow is the quietest he has ever heard it before.

“Then be better,” Bill says, breaking the silence.

“Okay,” he says. “I will be.”

When Harry returns to Hogwarts, he finds a disgruntled Draco Malfoy sitting in the corner of the Headmaster’s office with his hands tied together. Tied together is more of a suggestion—they’re loose enough that he can hold a book in his hands to read, which is what he’s doing. He looks up to glance at Harry, sniffs imperiously, then returns to reading his book.

“Kidnapped?” Harry asks after granting the boy a momentary glance.

“Kidnapped.” Albus confirms. He shakes his head in disbelief. “We’ve told Narcissa our demand, and she’s fulfilling it as we speak.”

“You were certainly efficient,” Harry says. Albus does an odd gesture with the upper half of his body that seems to imply— _well, of course, we weren’t just having tea_. It looks out of place since Dumbledore’s desk is still impaled with the sword of Gryffindor.

“Did you enjoy wherever you were?” Albus asks.

“I went to the Burrow.” Harry shrugs. “It was okay.”

“Just okay?”

“Difficult reconciling that I’ll never have what I once did. Time is tricky like that, you know. They’ll always be my friends, but it’ll never be the same.” Harry says.

“Sometimes it’s better that way,” Albus says. “It hurts, but what grows from the ashes is stronger than what was there before.”

“That sounds nice,” Harry says. “But I think you just made that up.”

Albus laughs. “I did,” he confesses. “But it did sound good, didn’t it?”

“Where’s Severus?”

“With Narcissa. He will be destroying it in the vault—that way we aren’t actually _stealing_ anything. We’re just examining the vault contents; removing them would risk the goblin’s ire,” Albus says wisely.

Harry nods, unsurely. “And when will they be back?”

“Oh, anytime!” he says brightly as the floo ignites and a disgruntled Severus Snape steps out of the fireplace with a frantic Narcissa Malfoy behind him. She rushes to her son.

“Draco! Are you okay?” she cries as she falls to her knees in front of her child and begins to untie the ropes.

Draco gives his mother a disdainful look, and easily pulls his hands free of their bonds. “Yes, Mother,” he drawls, “you have saved me.”

Narcissa sighs in relief and then turns to glare at Harry. “I thought you were my friends! How _dare_ you do this to me! I would’ve helped you if you had just _told_ me what you wanted to do in Gringotts in the first place! Remember? You _told_ me about this?”

Harry rubs his neck. “I forgot?” he blushes. “I just—it seemed like the best idea.”

Narcissa whips out her wand and sends a sharp stinging hex Harry’s way. He doesn’t bother to block it—he truly does deserve it this time. He _had_ informed Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy of the horcruxes, and he knew they wanted them destroyed. There was no need to pretend to kidnap Draco Malfoy.

“I hope you’re happy,” she spits.

“Thank you, truly,” Harry says sincerely. “There’s only the snake and the man himself left—you destroyed the cup, right, Severus?”

Severus nods.

Narcissa huffs. “That’s not an excuse—you have no idea what went through my mind when I heard that Draco was being held hostage!”

“I’m sorry,” Harry says. “It was my idea. But the good news is that we’re almost there, and he doesn’t know a thing.”

Dumbledore smiles gently. “It is good news,” he agrees. “Now, Mrs Malfoy, you may stay here if you fear for your safety.”

“Why would I—oh, yes, I see. May I contact my husband?” she asks.

Dumbledore nods, and she leaves her son to use the floo.

“Now what?” Severus says. “How are we going to get the snake?”

“I’ll do it,” Harry says firmly.

“We’ll come with you,” Dumbledore says.

“No,” Harry says quickly. “He’ll suspect something immediately and flee as soon as he sees you. This needs to be stealthy. It needs to be me, alone.”

“You can’t do that!” Severus protests.

“Are you able to be around Voldemort with his guard down?” Harry shoots back. Severus shakes his head. “I thought so. He trusts me. I can end him—just trust me. _Please_.”

Dumbledore looks at Harry carefully. “Look at me, please,” he asks.

Harry meets Dumbledore’s eyes. They stare at each other in tense silence—the mumur of Narcissa’s voice in the floo; the soft turn of the pages of Draco Malfoy’s book; the hum of a few whimsical instruments around the office—

“Trust me,” Harry pleads.

Dumbledore nods. “I do.”

Harry takes a deep breath of relief. “Thank you. The next time I see you, Voldemort will be dead.”


	15. The Dark Lord Again

The Dark Lord Voldemort waits patiently for the next person to enter his throne room. His snake, Nagini, winds her way around the throne and basks in the warmth it emits. He purposefully keeps this room too cold, uncomfortable for anyone who calls upon him. But he is a vain creature; he requires comfort, so his throne is surrounded in a localised heating charm—not that anyone would _know_ this, as he is unapproachable; no one would dare, except for his most loyal, his most faithful—

—who is gone, has been gone, for far too long. He may never return, wouldn’t that be a shame? All those years of hand-holding, catering to him, courting him to his side—no—he _will_ return. He believed in the cause, at the end, his loyal apprentice did; his soul would never betray him; he just has to have patience—something he has, but doesn’t like to show, to demonstrate. Patience is a weakness more than it is a strength. It makes people think they can take advantage of you, so no, never be patient, never be weak. Be powerful. Be impatient. Be strong.

Nagini hisses to hear her own voice as she settles in the Dark Lord Voldemort’s lap, basking in the warmth he provides. An intimidating picture—perfect. Intimidation and fear are the first steps to control.

When an unassuming man enters the room without even a knock, the Dark Lord Voldemort expects them to immediately cower in terror at seeing their Lord’s expression—but this one? This one walks confidently with his head held high.

“Who dares enter?” the Dark Lord Voldemort thunders at the audacity of the newcomer—their neglect of the proper procedures, their refusal to submit. He lifts his wand lazily, preparing to teach the man a lesson.

“Otec,” the servant says and then—

The Dark Lord Voldemort smiles and says, “Welcome home, Harry.”

Harry Smith walks confidently into the heart of Voldemort’s headquarters. He nods to the Death Eaters congregated in a dining hall. A few recognise him, and cause the younger, more ambitious few to restrain their wands.

“Smith,” one says in greeting.

“Where can I find him?” Harry asks.

He is directed to the large audience chamber down the hallway and to the right. Harry inclines his head in thanks, and then turns to depart.

Behind him, he hears someone ask, “Who was _that_?”

The resulting hushes bring a smirk to Harry’s face. _If only they knew_.

He sees the door, and enters without knocking. Voldemort’s expression is furious—and _perfect_ , Nagini is with him—and Harry closes the door behind him.

“Who dares enter?” Voldemort says in his anger. Nagini hisses in what anyone else would assume is a show of intimidation. In ordinary situations, it would be terrifying sight—but Nagini is merely complaining about the rapid movement jarring her resting place—Harry is unafraid.

He swallows back the bile and says, “Otec.”

Voldemort almost appears to _beam_. It’s a horrifying sight. “Welcome home, Harry.” He stands from his seat after shoving Nagini to the side. “It has been a long time.”

“It certainly has,” Harry agrees amicably.

“The last I heard, you had been driven out of the country,” Voldemort remarks.

Harry nods. “You’re correct,” he says. “But destiny needs to be fulfilled, so I returned.”

Voldemort’s smile is unnatural on such a disfigured face. “So you’ve finally decided to join me, then? We’ve much work to do. I’ve been waiting for you to assist me with a ritual. Come.”

“Here I am,” Harry says under his breath. “Send me.”

The Dark Lord Voldemort takes his most loyal apprentice who has finally returned to fulfill their destiny of controlling Britain towards the ritual chamber. He has been wanting to do this ritual for years—but there has been no one he has trusted enough to assist him.

But this is truly his loyal apprentice, because none other would dare call him _father_. None other would address him with such confidence. None other would have a soul who would resonate so clearly with his own, who would not shrink back at Nagini’s cries—none other than his own soul made new. The Dark Lord Voldemort would never betray himself; the Dark Lord Voldemort is wise. He could never be betrayed by his most loyal apprentice, especially not one who wears his own soul.

“Little soul,” the Dark Lord Voldemort says as they arrive in the ritual room. His servant is alert, waiting for a command. How subservient he is, how eager to please. “Help me clean the remnants of the previous ritual.”

Without question, the servant kneels and begins to scoop the remnants of the ritual he conducted only a few days earlier to fortify his mortal shell. It is inconvenient being immortal in a world full of foolish mortality. The Dark Lord Voldemort understands that he, too, must assist in the cleaning to properly acknowledge the memory and free the magic within. It is slave work, but the Dark Lord Voldemort must conduct such despicable actions in order to properly claim his most honest title of Dark Lord.

So he allows himself to be vulnerable in front of his most loyal servant who sees him as a _father_ , as his _otec_ , who he taught and nourished and raised to be a weapon most powerful and most dangerous. The enemies of the Dark Lord Voldemort ought to quake in their places upon hearing that his most beloved has returned to him at last. The Prodigal Son as his avenging angel.

The Dark Lord Voldemort does not speak, neither does his apprentice, as they clean up the mixture of feathers, flour, fur, and figs. Upon completion, the Dark Lord Voldemort views his apprentice in disgust as his appearance is marred by the combination of materials.

“Clean yourself,” the Dark Lord Voldemort commands. “I must seek Lucius for supplies.”

His servant bows, and departs from view. The Dark Lord Voldemort steps outside the room, and deems himself too busy to manually clean himself, so he flicks his hand and his robes are clean, dark, intimidating once more.

He walks through the halls until he finds a slave. “You! Where is Lucius?” the Dark Lord Voldemort demands.

The person, who he vaguely recognises as Peter Pettigrew—such a disappointing fellow, isn’t he?—squeaks. “Hogwarts, my Lord.”

“What is he doing at _Hogwarts_?” the Dark Lord Voldemort bites back the _crucio_ that he wants to use on this infuriating flea.

“Their son, Draco,” the pitiful man says, trembling. “He’s in the Hospital Wing. Lucius went with Narcissa to visit.”

“Fools,” the Dark Lord Voldemort spits. “ _Crucio_ ,” he finally says, and he listens to the sweet screams of an innocent man.

Harry Smith finds someone who can direct him to a shower. Once the person saw what Harry was covered in, they immediately understood the necessity for manual cleaning.

“Cleaned the ritual chamber,” Harry adds needlessly.

The stranger nods. “Take a left. First door you see.”

“Thanks,” Harry says, before striding in the pointed direction. The faster he can clean himself, the faster he can hunt Nagini, and kill her. Halfway through his shower, Harry blinks a few times and then swears loudly, feeling like a complete idiot. He doesn’t care about the success of this ritual. He shouldn’t _care_ about “respecting the memory and letting the magic go”—an old wives tale that has been definitively disproven by countless scholars in Canada. But he just—he just fell immediately back into that old pattern of obedience, of drifting, drifting, drifting.

No more.

He turns off the water. He steps out, uses his magic to dry himself, and clean his robes. He dresses himself. He takes a deep breath. He is here to murder an evil man. A mad man. He’s here to murder Voldemort, to kill him, to euthanise a monster.

He can’t afford to get distracted. He must find Nagini _now_.

Harry leaves the room, flicking his hand to magic away the remains on the floor of the disgusting ritual that previously occurred—anything involving figs is guaranteed to have some aspect of fertility involved—and he heads back to the throne room. Voldemort is getting materials for the ritual he is planning—and during that ritual is when Harry will strike, that’s when he’ll kill him. That’s when he’ll end him.

And then—what will happen to his followers? What will happen afterwards? Will they instead decide to follow his apprentice—to follow _Harry_?

But—is that really his problem? He’s just here to end Voldemort, then he can return to live the life he has back _home_ , in Toronto, where he has friends—so maybe—just maybe—he can leave the clean-up to the good people here. He will have done his duty, fulfilled his own destiny.

Is that running away? Is that cheating? Just because the leader is killed doesn’t mean the organisation will fall—but he’s only been tasked to kill the leader.

Just the leader.

And the leader _will_ fall.

Harry enters the throne room and, as he expected, Nagini is curled over the throne luxuriously. She opens an eye upon sensing Harry, but closes it without any care. She feels safe here. He quickly walks up to the sleeping serpent and stares at her cautiously, trying to determine if there are any spells cast over her. Deciding that there aren’t, he raises his wand—needing to be certain, needing to be accurate—and casts a cutting curse, severing her head from her body.

And then—without warning—the throne explodes and Harry, losing his balance, falls to the ground.

After cursing the fool into oblivion, and asking two other servants where Lucius is, the Dark Lord Voldemort determines that Lucius is actually at Hogwarts due to his unfortunately foolish spawn. Promising to torture his servant later, the Dark Lord Voldemort heads towards his throne room to call upon someone else to fetch the ingredients needed.

But upon walking through the door—he sees—

—he _sees_ —

Nagini’s head, falling to the floor—

And he casts a curse, barely missing the intruder, causing the throne to erupt into thousands of pieces, sending the murderer to the floor, where a rock hits his forehead.

The Dark Lord Voldemort stalks forward, pulling out his wand—needing to be powerful, needing to be vicious—and begins to speak the two words that will end this man’s life—when he recognises who it is.

—and his world shifts—

Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, blinks open his eyes, wipes the blood out of his face with the back of his hand, glancing at it momentarily, and then realises he is shadowed by someone. He looks up—and he flinches. Voldemort is standing above him, with his mouth almost opened in surprise. Harry grabs his wand and he stumbles to his feet.

Voldemort apparently realises that he has missed his opportunity to murder his traitorous apprentice, decides to fire a curse at him instead. Harry summons a piece of the throne, blocking it in its path.

“Why did you betray me?” Voldemort demands. “I gave you _everything_!”

“You took far more than you gave,” Harry says, lifting shards of the throne and sending them all towards Voldemort. The pieces hurdle through the air like miniature daggers racing to their target.

Voldemort waves his wand negligently and the shards turn course and ram themselves inches deep into the wall. “Since when have you been a traitor?”

Harry smirks. “I’ve never been loyal, if that’s what you mean,” he replies, conjuring a cutting board that promptly cleaves in half. Harry uses his wand to send the two halves back towards Voldemort, while with his other hand, flicks a boulder into existence, also heading towards Voldemort on the other side.

Voldemort, apparently done talking, redirects the boulder towards Harry. Harry uses the speed of the boulder to swing it behind him to change direction, emerging on his other side, ricocheting towards Voldemort.

Voldemort explodes the boulder, the two halves of the cutting board having missed him completely. The shrapnel speeds towards Harry and he conjures a shield that protects his body, though some scrap and scratch at the few exposed parts, that start to bleed. The shield crumbles as soon as the shrapnel stop.

Harry’s breathing fast. Voldemort laughs. “You think you can _beat_ me?”

“No,” Harry says. “I _know_ I can.”

He can almost imagine the groans his friends would give at the audacity of saying that to Voldemort. It gives him joy—and he needs any spare bit of courage to keep going.

They fight—spell for spell, they cast, each making more and more minor injuries, to the point where Voldemort has a cut on his cheek that is bleeding freely, and Harry’s arms are sliced lightly from the exploded boulder. Harry’s ankle twinges with every step, from the amount of debris gathering, and Voldemort appears to have some difficultly breathing.

They’re evenly matched.

Harry flicks out a whip of water, which is crushed by a hot stream of air, turning it into steam. The room becomes faintly misty. Voldemort tries to drown Harry, but Harry knows the counter to the spell, so he drops to the floor, soaking wet. Harry makes a wave of fire spread in the direction of Voldemort. When Voldemort attempts to extinguish it with water, it fails and only burns brighter.

 _Electrical fire_. Understanding it needs to be smothered, Voldemort blankets the flames with stone, and in the light, his red eyes glow brightly.

Sand and wind, wood and stone—they use anything and everything in their attempts to murder the other, making monsters out of elements they create, changing the environment around them, trying to suffocate the other in poisonous gases; on and on and on they battle. They fight. They bleed. They curse each other’s names, each growing weaker and weaker as time progresses.

“What did I do to you that made you hate me so much?”

“You killed my parents,” Harry says.

“I remember no such thing,” Voldemort whips his wand around his head, summoning an ethereal mass of darkness that begins to devour everything in its path. “ _Znesvětit duši_.”

Recognising the curse for what it is—the ultimate form of destruction, the sole curse that even Voldemort had previously shied away from—the curse that consumes a soul entirely and creates a dementor—Harry takes a deep breath before slamming his palms together, his wand pressed between them, and saying, “ _Odvrátiť sa._ ” _Turn away_.

But Voldemort’s will is as strong as his own and so the mass of starving shadows congregates between them.

“When I find you as a child, I will _kill_ you before you ever can betray me,” Voldemort hisses as he adjusts his grip on his wand.

“You failed, numerous times,” Harry says with a cold laugh. “You never managed to kill me, not for lack of trying.”

Enraged, Voldemort roared—incomprehensible, his anger is almost palpable. “ _Who are you?”_

“I don’t think I’ll give you the pleasure of knowing,” Harry says, and then with all of his willpower—with all of his strength, every feeling of grief and horror and resentment and hatred and anger; sorrow, joy, peace—he discards the _drifting_ , he discards any _lack_ of emotion, he discards the past and puts on the mantle of prophecy and turns back the curse Voldemort had sent and his internal emotional storm overpowers Voldemort’s sole feeling of rage.

And Voldemort’s wand is ripped from his hand and clatters across the room.

And Voldemort screams as the sinister twilight begins to encompass him.

And Tom Riddle falls to the floor, mortally injured—his immortality since shattered—and he lays dying on the floor of the perilous ruins of his once noble throne room, where he ruled his growing kingdom with an iron fist.

But now he lies on the floor, dying. A dementor begins to form above him.

Harry Potter walks towards him, ignoring the infant dementor—it can do no damage yet—limping, to face his foe. He stands above Tom Riddle and stares down at him with cold, assessing eyes. He nudges the dying man with his foot.

Tom Riddle’s red eyes open, flaming with madness, and with the last of his strength, he flicks his hand, too weak to send a killing curse, but strong enough to cause serious damage, strong enough to kill—and—and—

And Tom Riddle dies.

But Harry manages to twist his body out of the way—barely enough to avoid dying from Tom Riddle’s final parting gift, but not enough to avoid being injured. He didn’t manage to move far enough to save his arm—where the curse hit, a burning severing curse—burning the wound close—a permanent injury, Harry instantly knows as he watches his arm fall to the floor. His right arm.

His wand arm.

His _arm_.

Oh _god_ —his _arm_. His wand is still in his— _the_ —hand that is lying on the floor, and Voldemort is dead and Harry is crying, he feels like he is burning alive, and he knows, he _knows_ he needs to get out of this place before someone is brave enough to investigate and discovers him here, _armless_ , exhausted, with their leader dead.

He needs to flee. The dementor is born, starving and ready to attack.

He grabs—he _holds_ the arm— _his arm_ —with his left hand— _god_ , his arm—and the wand and he fumbles and he drops the wand, but he has to take the arm with him—right? He can’t just _leave his arm_. But he has some of his arm left— it cut in a diagonal across his humerus, there’s a stub left— _there’s a stub left_ —a _stub_ —so he tucks his arm— _his arm_ —underneath his stub and he holds his wand in his left hand. His hand is shaking. He’s in shock. He needs to get out of here before he passes out—something he can feel crawling up the back of his spine. He thinks he can hear the faint scream of his mother in the back of his head—but _no_ , there isn’t _time_ for this.

He knows he can apparate out of here—but can he apparate without splinching himself, injuring himself even further? He doesn’t have time to think about it—he doesn’t have time to panic, he needs to _leave_ ; he can hear footsteps outside the doorway, and then, just as the door swings open, getting stuck on the remains of Voldemort’s throne, Harry apparates, and is gone, leaving behind the dementor, hysterically laughing, because isn’t it funny how Tom Riddle ended up being immortal after all?

He reappears at the gate to Hogwarts, where he immediately falls to the floor, his arm rolling— _his arm_ —rolling some metres away. Oh _god_ —he can’t take this anymore—he can’t—he can’t—he _can’t_ —not his _arm_ —

But he needs to get inside the wards, he needs to make it to safety; he’s not there yet, he’s not there _yet_ and so he stumbles down and tucks his arm beneath his stub— _god,_ his _arm_ —and begins to limp in the direction of the castle, where oblivion awaits.

But he is tired, and exhausted—he just dueled Voldemort—and _won_ — _god_ , his arm _—_ he needs to make it inside, he needs to make it inside, he needs to make it inside.

At the stairs into the castle—at the site where he first appeared when he noodled all those years ago, his body gives out, recognising that safety is _close enough_ , and that it is time to stop thinking, to stop working, to _stop_.

Oh, _god_ , his arm.

—————————————————

Harry wakes up in the Hospital Wing in a daze. He is in—a _private_ room; how odd. He blinks his eyes slowly. It takes him a few seconds to remember what happened the previous day—and then it hits him.

He instantly looks at his right arm—but it still is a stub. It’s bandaged, wrapped tightly, even though he’s pretty certain the potions he has been given have healed the—the end of it.He swears he can _feel_ his fingers though, but they’re not there. Nothing’s there. Phantom limb syndrome, he faintly recalls.

He stares at the stub in a depressed acceptance. _Scars aren’t as easily healed as wounds._ He told Mrs Weasley that— _god_ , wasn’t that only two days ago? Because—because he killed Voldemort yesterday, and lost his arm.

A knock on the door.

Only a heartbeat later, the door swings open and reveals Albus Dumbledore.

“Hello,” Harry croaks, surprised at the sound of his own voice.

“Good morning, Harry,” Albus says gently. “You’ve been unconscious for a number of days now.”

Harry blinks. He might have to reconsider his timeline. “How long?”

“Not many,” Albus says. “Two, I believe.”

Harry nods.

Albus continues, “You suffered quite a lot of injuries—and, well—there were a few moments where we weren’t sure you would make it, but you pulled through. The curse on your arm was especially frightful. We tried to save it, but without your expertise, I’m afraid we were unable to—”

“There wasn’t any hope for it anyways,” Harry interrupts. “I couldn’t have done anything to save it. The curse was designed to be resistant to healing magic. It’s why my arm wasn’t bleeding when I showed up last night.”

Albus looks thoughtful. “Madam Pomfrey was wondering, as was I. But why did you—pardon me, this is likely insensitive—why did you _keep_ it?”

Harry blinks a few times. “It’s my _arm_ , and it had just been removed from my body. I didn’t want to leave it.”

“Would you like it back?” Albus asks.

Harry shudders. “No. I don’t want to see it again. Get Severus to—let him deal with it.”

“I shall,” Albus agrees.

Harry sighs, and shifts his weight. He doesn’t want to talk anymore. He cradles the stub of his arm. He wants to sleep until this is all just a bad dream.

This was supposed to go so _differently_.

The next time Harry wakes, night has fallen. He feels better than he did earlier, but he still doesn’t feel great. He reckons though no one would after losing a limb. Maybe he can bond with Mad-Eye Moody now.

Restraining his own laughter is how the person watching over him notices he is finally awake.

It is Severus. “Finally going crazy?” he asks.

Harry tries to shrug, but the feeling of his stub against the blanket causes him to shudder.

Severus tries to look kind, but he is out of practice after nearly six years. “How are you feeling?” he finally says after struggling with his words for several seconds.

Harry blinks. “Not good, I guess,” he says.

Severus grimaces. “Probably not the best question?”

“No.” Harry pauses. “What’s it like out there?”

“Complete chaos,” Albus says, after knocking on the door while opening it. “The Death Eaters are in an uproar, destroying nearly everything, while the everyone else is celebrating. We have much to thank you for. There’s to be a celebration at the Ministry in your honour in a few week’s time.”

“I think—I think I just want to go home,” Harry admits. “I don’t want any prize. I’m just—I’m done.”

Severus folds his arms across his chest and looks at Albus as if to say _see? This is exactly what I told you he’d say_.

Albus nods solemnly. “You have visitors, if you feel ready,” he says.

Harry glances at Severus. “Maybe in a few minutes. Don’t you have… I don’t know—questions for me? About how I did it?”

Albus looked at Harry with an expression of deep sorrow. “Oh, Harry,” he says. “I know I have treated you unfairly in the past. But you’ve been through something traumatic, and I’m trying to be better. If you want to talk about it, please do. But I’m not going to push you to tell me anything. What we know is that you’ve kept your promise. Voldemort is dead—we have no right to ask anything from you.”

Harry blinks back tears to his surprise. “Thank you,” he murmurs. “I—maybe I want to talk about it?”

Severus nods. “Go ahead.”

“I’m not sure where to begin,” Harry looks at his hand—his only hand, now. “He was dying, I had won—but right before he died, he managed to send one last curse at me. I wasn’t expecting it. I couldn’t move out of the way fast enough and—well—“

Harry gestures at his stub.

“No one is perfect,” Albus says gently.

“That’s not the point!” Harry shouts. “It’s that no matter what happens to me after this, I’m going to have a reminder of him _forever_! I want to forget this ever happened!”

“You have no right to forget,” Severus says coldly. “You’re not the only one who is scarred.” Severus pulls up his sleeve, revealing the Dark Mark—faint and faded, but undeniably present.

“I didn’t mean it that—”

“How else did you mean it?” Severus tugs his sleeve back down. “At least _your_ injury is that of a martyr. The people will love you for what you have done for them. You’ve lost your arm—which is horrible, it’s tragic, it’s sad—but you _killed the Dark Lord_. It’s not a symbol of disgrace, but one of victory. I’m marked with disgrace. I’m marked with a symbol that forever brands me as a horrible person—someone who followed the Dark Lord at one point in my life. So you have it so bad, don’t you? You were _never_ marked. You never had to endure the prejudice I had to go through. Yes, you had the reputation of being the Contortionist, but now your reputation is saved—you’re the world’s hero. So grow up, Harry. You’ve lost your arm, and I”m very sorry, but you’ve no right to forget. You need to remember so that your pain— _my_ pain—doesn’t get repeated.”

Harry stares at Severus with an open mouth for several seconds. “Oh, Severus—I—I’m so sorry. I never thought about it from your perspective.”

“Obviously,” Severus retorts. “Be a bit more grateful. At least you’re _alive_.”

“I think,” Albus says with the intent to mediate, “that we might want to lower our voices. I don’t think Madam Pomfrey can hold off the visitors for much longer.”

“I’m sorry, Severus,” Harry says, trying to make eye contact, but being unable to do so. “I—I think I’m still in shock? I just—the whole experience didn’t go as planned. I was going to attack him with him unawares, but he found me killing Nagini—and then we had to duel instead of a—instead of an assassination, really.”

“That explains why you passed out on the stairs,” Albus says.

“I found you,” Severus says, “in a heap at the bottom of them. It reminded me of how we first met.”

Harry smiles lightly. “I hope you can forgive me for being insensitive,” Harry says while looking at his stub—oh, _god_ , his arm—“I’m just kind of overwhelmed.”

Severus nods. “Don’t repeat it,” he warns.

“So what are your plans now?” Albus asks, deciding to change the subject.

“I guess—I guess go home,” Harry says.

“Running away again?” Severus asks.

“No,” Harry says, managing to stay even-toned. Severus has clearly not calmed down yet. “I’ve done my duty here. I’m free from responsibility now. I’m going to go home, and I’m going to live the rest of my life.”

“I think that’s a wise decision,” Albus says.

“You’re just running away,” Severus repeats.

“No, I’m not,” Harry says sternly. “I’m stuck here. Britain isn’t _good_ for me anymore. I know I’m not supposed to forget—and I won’t forget, I can’t—but I found a place where I’m accepted and not famous and where I’m not supposed to be two people at once. What will people do when they figure out I’m actually supposed to be sixteen? Just accept it?”

“That would prove troublesome,” Albus remarks.

“They’d probably think I was planning on becoming the next Dark Lord once their excitement over my victory wears off—I was the man’s _apprentice_. I’m not the beacon of light and hope that they want from me. I’ve—I’m—I’m proud of what I’ve done. I’ve atoned for my sins. But I know when it’s time to leave. And this is the time.”

Severus looks at Harry hopefully. “Would you mind company?”

Harry winces. “Actually—”

Severus shakes his head quickly. “I get it,” he says. “You want a fresh start—where you came from is a blank slate. You don’t want the past to linger where you go from here.”

“I’m not trying to be cruel,” Harry says.

“That doesn’t mean it’s _not_ ,” Severus says. “I want to get out of here just as much as you do. But I understand why you want to go alone. It hurts—that you, my once best friend, don’t want me along—but I can understand your reasoning. It’s time to move on.”

“It’s time for the world to move on,” Harry says quietly. “Starting with me.”

Albus looks between the two of them with a thoughtful gaze. “Separating doesn’t mean you can’t visit,” Albus says. “I know that I value both of your friendships. And—”

“Wait! What about the Unbreakable Vow?” Harry interrupts. “About Severus having to kill you?”

“Oh,” Albus says, startled. “We were able to come to a resolution. Narcissa was able to release the terms of the Vow—so it no longer needs to be enacted.”

“I didn’t know that was possible,” Harry says.

“It’s not widely documented,” Severus says. “But apparently the Malfoy’s have record of how it works. Narcissa was able to help us in return for saving her family.”

Harry nods. “Sorry, Albus—go on?”

“I value both of your friendships,” Albus repeats. “And I know I will want to visit with both of you in the future. You are both powerful young men with great futures ahead of you. We stand in a crossroad—and though we are parting in our ways, we can always meet again. This doesn’t have to be good-bye forever.”

“I’d like that,” Harry says. “I don’t want to cut off contact forever.”

“I suppose I could write,” Severus admits.

“Splendid,” Albus says. “Send me your information as soon as you are settled and we can correspond. Maybe in a few months time we can gather for tea—to catch up, see how we are doing.”

“Please.” Harry nods his head. “I’d like that.”

Before they can talk further, the door swings open, and Ron and Hermione rush into the room and Harry is covered with two teenagers shouting praises and joy and love—and though it may not be the perfect resolution to their conversation, Severus gives Harry a smile on his way out the room. Albus pats Harry’s remaining hand—oh, _god_ , his arm—and leaves as well.

The rest of the Weasleys crowd into the room.

“Oh, well done, Harry!” Arthur Weasley declares once they’ve all filed in. “We’re so proud of you!”

Hermione pulls away and smiles at Harry. She glances once at his stub and then quickly looks away, not wanting to truly acknowledge what’s missing.

“I _knew_ you could do it!” Hermione says with a smile.

“I reckon you did well,” Ron says with a soft fist to Harry’s shoulder.

“I think I’ve done something I’m proud of,” Harry says, his eyes searching for Bill.

Bill smiles. “I think this might qualify,” he agrees.

Ginny is the first to acknowledge the lack of arm. “Does it hurt?” she asks timidly—oddly shy of an adult Harry; uncharacteristic of the girl he faintly remembers—to the hushes of the family.

“It feels like someone cut off my arm,” Harry says smartly. “But no—it’s mostly fine now. Just some phantom limb syndrome.”

“I’ve read about that,” Hermione interjects. “When I heard, I decided to ask my parents if they had any texts about the subject, which they didn’t—dentists don’t go to the same schools as medical doctors—”

“That’s fine, Hermione,” Ron says gently. “I believe you.” Hermione looks Ron askance until he explains, “I don’t think Harry really cares about that right now.

“Actually,” Harry says. “I’d love to be distracted. I’ve no idea how long I’m meant to be in here.” Hermione beams until Harry continues, “Tell me about what’s been happening. What’s it like out there?”

“Oh, completely mad!” Mrs Weasley says. “But the aurors are working hard to round up the rest of the Death Eaters, but people have been celebrating—almost as much as they did the first time!”

“Did you really have to kill him on Easter, though?” Fred says.

Harry laughs out loud. “It was Easter?” he asks incredulously. “I had no idea.”

George nods. “One of the holiest days of the year, now celebrated by fireworks and mass partying because someone had great timing.”

“The Muggles went completely mad,” Fred says with a grin. “They weren’t sure why there was such a fuss—nothing’s happened like this before!”

“Best prank ever, in our opinion,” George finishes.

“So,” Ron says slowly. “Are you going to tell us what happened?”

Harry looks at Ron, at his eager eyes. “Where do I start?”

“At the noodling!” Arthur says. “Did you hear? A _zucchini_ noodling—how fascinating! Tell us the whole story! Right from the beginning”

Harry laugh in disbelief, but nods. He takes a look around the room. He’s surrounded by people who love him. He’s surrounded by teenagers and adults alike—all part of the same family, all tied together with bonds Harry seeks for himself. Maybe he’ll find them—sometime in his future.

He looks at Ron and Hermione. He looks at them—so _young_. So _free_. Such great hopes rest in their souls. He looks at the youth represented there—at the years ahead of them, brimming with endless possibility. He wonders if that same possibility brims in his own eyes. Maybe it doesn’t—but maybe—just maybe—it does.

He smiles. “Let me tell you a story.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to all of my readers for taking this journey with me! If you have any outstanding questions, please let me know in the comment section and I'll be sure to answer them.


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